


TEXARKANA: What Really Happened

by Manager



Category: Fiction Plane
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manager/pseuds/Manager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On October 15th, 2005, in Texarkana, Arkansas, a freight train derailed and hazardous cargo leaked out; it ignited and caused a disaster for the immediate area for a full day. This is my take on the tragic accident.</p>
<p>IMPORTANT: Please do read the Prologue before going on into the story; essential information is revealed there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TEXARKANA: What Really Happened

TEXARKANA: What Really Happened

 

Prologue

Hello. The name is Manager, the author of this book. Not meaning to state the obvious, it is my hope that you enjoy this story, the hopeful installment of a series to come. It may seem rather long, but, aren’t all good stories long, and have a mysterious ending? The short story reveals some of the majour characters in the book, asides from the new ones introduced. Please enjoy this story, as it took me quite a long time and a number of writer’s blocks to overcome. Then again, don’t all authors have many blocks and hurtles to overcome with any story they write?  
I wish to extend a heartfelt “Thank You” to certain characters in the story, who are based off of real life people that I am honoured and privileged to include in this story, and many more to come. Inside this remarkably short story (in the author’s opinion), you will find great attention as possible to many scenes, many descriptions on features of characters or situations, and character names you may recognize. This story, and its many counterparts to come, will reveal many things about life experiences for many people, places, or things that have happened, or may be currently happening.  
A little treat at the beginning of each book will be a character information page, with a full photo of that character and a biography of them. Also, there may or may not be a prologue regarding the book itself.  
In regards as to how this story came about, while watching a favourite television program of mine so aptly called, “Destroyed In Seconds”, one of the clips on the official website titled, “Back Up, FAST!” showcased a train derailment and explosion in Texarkana, Arkansas. With the help of the internet, and greatly YouTube, I was able to discover the raw dash camera video of the incident, unedited and complete, as it had been edited, showcased, and then presented on “Destroyed In Seconds”. It took several months, but I was able to decipher most of the radio chatter, with the occasional earache from the audio itself.  
The story’s introduction, main action, and something of a turning point was actually written as an English assignment and when presented, many did say they felt uneasy, scared, and could feel their adrenaline rushing whenever the disaster occurred. Only a year later in another English class, in which case I had plenty of spare time from finishing work early, I began to make it a little lengthy story. From a mere two and a half page paper came a nineteen page story, which I decided to evolve into a possible longer edition, and must say could not breach a certain page mark: the triple digit everyone likes on their cell phones’ battery or their iPods— 100.  
Yes, I did want to make it close to one hundred pages, but I was not able to get it that far, and many I know are very thankful. Regardless, this accident that happened at around five in the morning on October 15th, 2005 intrigued me. There were so many unknowns for me and with the help of the National Transportation Safety Board’s review and coverage of the accident, many of them were cleared up for me.  
No, I am not some sick-minded person who wants everyone to dwell on everything that happens inside the story. I merely felt like making my own version of the accident, and paying tribute to the brave men and women who went to the accident and risked their lives to help complete strangers, their families, and friends, and to those who may have had unfortunate experiences due to the accident.  
As I did say earlier, characters are based on the many personality parts I portray, and some are based off of good friends of mine, and I give them a heartfelt “Thank you” for their consideration and accepting of being a part of this. Fans of the children’s show “TUGS” from the late 1980s may be having a trip down memory lane if they grew up with the show; four characters are heavily based off of notable four from the show, but not direct copycats of them. I give them my own little twists here and there, as I do with some characters from other shows and movies; it is from there that several characters can, and usually, have been “born” in my mind from my interpretation of them. I hope you can figure out who they are, and from what movie or show I have been given inspiration from.  
If you do contact me, please do not ask for the actual events’ basis. I am afraid I will not respond, due to the fact I may be very busy working on another story. Once again, please enjoy this story in its entirety.

 

Sincerely,  
Manager

 

 

 

 

 

 

TEXARKANA: What Really Happened

It is 4:30 am on October 15, 2005 in the sleepy town of Texarkana, Arkansas. Peace engulfs the city and suburban scene as early morning continues on lazily; the dark sky is illuminated by the silvery-white moonlight. Inside a somewhat modern looking house for its time, its single occupant sleeps gently; the covers atop them slowly rise and drop with their peaceful breathing while they slumber. On the left hand side of the bed, looking directly at it from the front, a nightstand stands level with the mattress atop the box spring; a small window allows drapes to slowly wave as the air conditioning blows onto them. Some of the moonlight comes inside, but does not disturb the occupant; they simply have their back to the beauty of the early morning. On their nightstand, a small lamp is closest to the top left hand corner; the light fixture is simple in its appearance and build. It is merely the reinforced shaft, protecting vital electrical wires, the resting place for the bulb, and the shade atop it; the shade is a pyramid shape with an opening on its top large enough for the bulb to be replaced without hassle. Beside the black lamp, only an inch or two away, a ubiquitous black box alarm clock. It possesses the demonic red numerals as it shines in conjunction with the gentle moonlight; in front of it is the occupant’s cellphone. Although simple in its flat appearance, it is highly technological for the officer; it is the newest and latest Blackberry model. It remains silent, merely an inch or two away from the front of the alarm clock; its colour matches the alarm clock harmoniously.  
The occupant’s brand new upgraded cellular phone rings; the screen lights up as the singular, somewhat noisy ringtone sounds off. Their left hand fumbles about the nightstand; they hit the snooze button on the clock, which does not stop the noise, as the clock is not the source of the noisy ringtone. Finally, they take hold of the ringing cellphone and absentmindedly hits the “ANSWER” button on the Blackberry device with their left thumb; they bring it to their ear and mouth as they give a mostly groggy greeting to whomever has called them. They tell the caller if it is some cruel prank, they will regret it; their sleepy and barely thought out threat is responded to with a somewhat harsh diction from the caller on the other end of the line. Their partner in law enforcement and public protection has just informed them of an unknown, but bad accident about half a mile from where they live. He then informs them that they are needed to assist the rest of the squad that is out there and trying to figure out what exactly happened; they fumble a reply as their partner answers them sharply with a more problematic threat that lives may be in danger if they do not get their lazy self out of bed. His partner then gives them a small time limit to get out into the field and help investigate before hanging up and resuming his job; the occupant grumbles as they close their eyes and have the phone’s screen lit brightly. The call time flashes as the screen finally dims; they really do not want to leave their luxuriously comfortable bed. With a grumbling sigh, they reluctantly, and drowsily, sat up in bed.  
Their black hair was a literal mess as the occupant sat up in their bed; their right index finger and thumb had pulled on the chord to turn on the light to his small lamp on the nightstand. The light was not very bright at all, much to the occupant’s great, and certainly, exhausted, relief. They sit up in their bed and yawn noisily; their back was supported by the two feather pillows that their head once rested upon. The pillows were remarkably large for their size; both alone were the size of their torso from their waist to their head. Both were very puffy and comfortable; they beckoned the occupant back to bed, very seductively, with their incredible comfort, heavenly soft plushness, and gentle, seducing scent of a peaceful slumber. They grumble as the Blackberry phone vibrated, its screen lighting up as they squint with mostly closed eyes to see what caused it to be so noisy; a text message from their partner reads, “Axle McFarland, get your lazy ass outta that bed before I kick your door in and pull you out.” Axle’s head falls back, landing delicately into the plushy pillows behind him as he groans; his partner was seriously intent on getting him out in the field right now, regardless of what time it was. Raising his head up again, he swings his legs over the right side of his bed, and slips his feet into his slippers and leaves his bed; he turns off the light on his lamp with a simple tug of the chord by his right index finger and thumb, a click shutting off the source of light. His feet drag in the dark room, illuminated by the moonlight, as he trudges sleepily towards his bathroom.  
Heading into his bathroom, he turns on the lights with an upward flick of the light switch, courtesy of his right index finger and thumb, and quickly shuts his eyes as the light blinds him momentarily; it surely was bright as he squints, covering his mostly shut eyes with his left forearm. Begrudgingly, as his eyes adjust to the light, Axle shuffles towards a bathroom sink; on the faucet’s right side, a toothbrush holder holding a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He takes hold of his tooth brush with his right hand as his left grasps the tube of toothpaste; his left squeezes some toothpaste onto it as he brushes his teeth. Once he finishes, he spits out the cleaning agent and rinses his mouth; with partially wet hands, he fiddles and then combs his hair. He leaves his bathroom shortly after, turning off the light and turning on the light in his bedroom; again, he closes his eyes and covers them with his left forearm. He walks over to his closet, not far from his bed and opens the door; he reaches his hands inside and pulls out the standard issue patrol officer’s uniform and puts it on. It was freshly pressed only hours earlier when there was actual daylight. Once he has buttoned up the shirt, tucked it into the pants, zipped up the zipper on the pants and put on a belt, he sits on the bottom left corner of his bed while he puts on his nice new black polished shoes; he props the calf of one leg atop the other’s knee as he ties the knot with the shoelaces. This is all pretty routine to him, seeing as how he did it every day; once finished, he stands up and leaves his room. He turns off the light with a simple downward flick of the light switch, courtesy of his left index finger and thumb, and traverses through his dark house; his standard issue police equipment, on the beltline of the nice black uniform pants, jingles quietly as he walks along.  
Waltzing into his kitchen, he turns on the light, only to squint partially; he has become used to the blinding sight somewhat. Approaching his best friend, he fiddles with the coffeemaker in order to make himself a nice pot of fresh, black, caffeine enriched coffee. Once it is finished, he fetches a thermal covered mug for him to contain it. He pours the remarkable hot, black caffeinated beverage inside; steam is seen as it gently rises off the liquid and then dissipates into the early morning atmosphere in the quiet household. Once at a suitable level away from the brim of the cup, Axle pours a little sugar, followed by French vanilla creamer, mixes it up with a wooden stirring stick, thrown into the garbage can shortly after its use, and puts on the cover of thermal covered mug to preserve the freshness of the delicious beverage. He then takes hold of the cup with his left hand; he makes sure it is a secure grip, so he does not lose the delicacy he has just brewed for himself. He walks towards a wall with a little hanging set of keys on it; there is only one pair, the keychain filled with numerous items, including two different keys. He pauses to observe a picture hanging above the storage unit; he is present with two other young men. All are dressed in police uniforms; he is in the middle of the other two men. The tallest, and most muscular, is on the photograph’s left; the shortest is on the right. He cracks a smirk before yawning again; it is too early for him to be awake for investigating an accident.  
Then, after looking at the picture above this little storage device, he collects his police car’s keys with his right hand; he drops them into his right pants’ pocket as he walks to the front door. He stops at a door before it a few fathoms away in the hall; he opens it with his right hand and finds a security keypad. He opens the small door with his right index finger and thumb as his right index finger inputs a code; the device beeps in recognition and begins to do a simple little countdown. It is informing him that he has set the alarm to protect his belongings; he shuts the door with his right index finger and thumb before closing the door and exiting his house through the front door. Once the front door is shut, he digs out his keys and inserts one of the only two inside both key holes on the front door; he locks it and he turns around to exit the small overhang before his front door. He heads out towards the black and white police car parked in his driveway; it is a 2005 Capitol Motors Colossus highway patrol car. With a black front, white midsection where the four doors are located, and a matching black back, it is the ultimate speed machine for a pursuit; at least in Axle’s eyes, Unit 209 is pristine and better in almost every single way to the other vehicles in the Texarkana Police Department’s fleet. Since it is aerodynamic, the only noticeable changes to the vehicle itself are the red and blue lights atop the car roof, and the two silvery-chrome spotlights on the side view mirrors; Axle yawns noisily into the early morning, receiving only a few silent hoots from an owl or chirps from the crickets as a greeting.  
His right hand delves into his right pants’ pocket again as he fumbles it about for his keys; he pulls them out and finds the one he needs to get into his car. Unlocking it, he opens the door with his right hand and climbs inside; the coffee mug rests in the cup holder as he closes the door, and puts the keys in the ignition, turning them clockwise to start the car. The engine purrs as the car idles; he has to buckle up so he will not be a bad example of a police officer. As the buckle clicks noisily, signaling, he is safely seated, he removes the parking brake and slowly reverses out of his driveway and leaves his house, driving out of his neighbourhood; he takes a quick sip of his coffee before returning his right hand to the steering wheel. As he drives on, he turns on the police radio with his right index finger and thumb; it crackles while officers speak about the unknown accident.  
He does not seem to really mind what the conversations are about; he knows he will be briefed about the entire incident soon enough. He drives at a somewhat slow pace; his right hand tilts the thermal covered mug as he sips his hot, caffeine enriched beverage in hopes of waking up. He returns it to the cup holder as he quietly burps; his right hand covers his mouth, curled into a fist before returning to the steering wheel. He listens to reports of where the incident was said to have occurred; somewhere in Hobo Jungle. Axle yawns again as his car moves back and forth subtly; he halts at an all-way stop sign four-way intersection. Knowing his dashboard camera is on and rolling, he obeys the law; the car pulls back a bit as he gently accelerates the vehicle onwards towards the area of the reported incident. Driving on toward the scene of the disaster, he soon wonders if he should regret having this job.  
It is October 14th, 2005. At Texarkana, Arkansas, the rail yard close to nearby neighbourhoods in the area was bustling with freight trains rolling in and out, the loud diesel air horns bellowing into tranquil neighbourhoods nearby; locals have grown accustomed to the noise during the day. Trees stood majestically, their trunks a youthful brown colour as their leaves were the richest green, swaying subtly as a gentle breeze blew threw them. The mighty steel giants that were the locomotives, coloured in their respectful railroad corporations’ paintwork, rolled down the line, pulling their consists with complete and total totalitarian ease, or sat idle, as though glaring down upon everything else, as their crews awaited more orders from their dispatcher; those idling let off ticks and hisses while waiting with a somewhat impatient or very lethargic personage about them. The men and women relaxed comfortably about the yard safely, as though nothing were new while waiting for orders from dispatchers of the Union Pacific Railroad; several had lunch while conversing and enjoying the comfortable autumn weather.  
A half a mile away from the rail yard, a local auto garage was going through another boring routine day; the estate was massive in its size for the business it conducted. On the outside, it was a wonderful welcome in the front for the customers; there was plenty of warmth for them all while they waited for their vehicle to be repaired or inspected. Much to their surprise, there was even covered parking by large steel awnings supported by sturdy metal poles; it was clear that the business owner had considered the thoughts of unfortunate repairs needing to be made under inclement weather. Large, cushy green bushes and shrubs helped to mark sidewalks through the parking lot for the customers; the shrubs even seemed delighted to welcome and escort the guests and customers to the building. Yet, the inside of the building was a whole new can of worms for the customers.  
The waiting room was a little extravagant, as there was a large screen television, a small diner, and a dance floor; it was clear that the business wanted their customers to be comfortable and relaxed until their vehicle was all finished with repairs. The television screen was a remarkable seventy-two inches long, with Motion-Flo technology in the screen in addition to one thousand eighty pixel display; it was thin, and black. A manufacturer’s name and logo was absent from the electronic device. The small diner had six tables; two for only a two person meal, three for parties of four or more, and one for a very large customer party of ten or more. There was a small soda bar present; granted it had not been used, it was readily available. The diner served all American cuisine in addition to gulf coast delicacies; the prices were not exactly cheap but not ridiculously expensive either. The waiting room even had beds for customers to sleep on if they desired; it was very thoughtful, if a customer needed to rest after an overnight shift while their vehicle was repaired. The beds were something out of a highly expensive and luxury hotel; twin, queen, and king-sized beds awaited weary customers. The pillows were feather, allowing heads to sink into them slowly and in immense comfort; the blankets were large, plush, but also just right for taking a simple nap. They were not too heavy, nor too light; the combination of the highly soft mattress made the beds a knock-out for exhausted customers. Yet, behind all the clean wonders that had been given to the customers, the actual business itself was a completely different world.  
The garage was messiest that any sane person would have seen. The floor was as dark as a pitch black night, the tool shelves looked as though a gang of construction workers just thrown their tools onto them; grease, oil, and grim had built up over the years, and the shelves looked ready to collapse from the amount of tools piled onto one another. Vehicles being repaired, or looked over, were parked anywhere in the complex; a grand total of fifteen various vehicles sat inside with barely any space to walk inside. The lift for the automobiles was covered in hardened black oil and grease; it had one of the fifteen autos held above the ground as it was being mended. The employee break room was no better than the messy garage. The once nice and comfy sofa was rock-hard, stiff, and looked more like it had been through an intense fire with its original colour gone; grease and oil had sunk into the fabric, and given it a rather hardened and dull appearance. The tables inside were covered with dried oil stains, and the lockers smelt of the rancid scent of sweaty clothes, and horrid body odor; a high school football locker room seemed to be far better than what was present at the garage for the employees. The garage proudly sported the name “AutoMen” above its bay doors.  
In the employee parking garage, a black Cadillac Escalade sports utility vehicle’s once purring engine went silent as the key was pulled from the ignition slot; a parking brake was heard being applied as the luxury sports utility vehicle fell silent like the other various employee automobiles were in the parking garage. The driver’s side front door opened as its owner and driver stepped out of his vehicle. His face was sculpted, something of a cleft chin, but his eyes showing he was very experienced in what his occupation was; he was gentle and kindhearted in appearance. Another worker who had just arrived at the establishment called out to the Cadillac’s owner; it was apparent that the two had arrived for work. “Hey, yo, Victor!” he shouted with a smile, his left hand in the air as the two approached the building entrance. Victor smiled as he waved back to the man before he followed; the other man continued on as he smiled in return. He wanted to make sure his car was securely locked; he tested the doors by gently pulling on the handles with his right hand. As none of the doors opened up, he gently tried opening the trunk; it, too, did not open, informing its owner that it was securely sealed. A red security light flashed on and off periodically inside the car, on the driver’s side of the dashboard; the panic alarm would engage if unauthorized entry was being attempted. Smiling, the Cadillac’s owner turned around and walked towards the garage entry to go to work; he was happy to know life was going on as routinely as usual.  
Victor, the garage’s owner, had recently become a nationalized United States citizen. Being raised in Cuba, he grew to an amazing height of five feet and seven inches; it was considered a milestone in his family, as no-one ever grew taller than four feet six inches. His brown eyes complimented his dark brown hair, most of the time which looked black; he was fairly common in physical appearance to a Hispanic person, although his skin tone did not share the same colouring. His deep voice showed his strength and stamina, but it was gentle unless he was agitated; it suited his easygoing, somewhat tranquil and experienced personality. His love affair for cars and pick-ups began when he was a mere three year old; his father brought Victor and his family States’ side when he was just an infant, and got a job as an auto mechanic. A few times, Victor accompanied his father, when his entire family was out working to make ends meet, and his father showed him the ropes of the business; although he was so young, he remembered all the techniques and simple tricks his father used to make repairs last a very long time. That simple love affair of spending time with his father led Victor to adopt the business and name it in honour of his father whose nickname ended up being the “AutoMan”.  
As usual, Victor walked into his garage, and saw it, how else, a wreck. “Lug nuts and axle boxes!” he cried in alarm, his jaw dropped in horror at the sight in front of him; the garage was completely filthy, a complete and total mess. Every mechanic on duty stopped working to see their boss with his jaw dropped; those working on repairs stopped moving their tools to see Victor in complete disbelief and somewhat embarrassment. “What has happened to my beautiful repair shop!?” “Sorry, Victor”, a distinctively broad Glaswegian accented man answered as he approached the Cuban man; fine dirt and metal shavings scattered as his boots quietly scraped the floor as he stood near his boss. “Meant to clean it yesterday, but, one customer came, then another, then, you know. It just happened. Got too busy, guess we forgot to clean.” “Yes, Big Mac, I know”, Victor sighed, sounding very downtrodden; he rolled his eyes with the knowledge that this was a frequently used excuse to keep from cleaning the garage. He looked at the black haired, blue eyed man; he seemed very content with himself as he stood near his boss.  
Big Mac wore a dark navy blue polo shirt with short sleeves; due to his physique, the sleeves could barely contain his muscular triceps. They were enormous in size, showing he had done many things to have built so much muscle in his arms; it made him look like the stereotypical, tough guy mechanic. The shirt also possessed dried oil and grease stains, and the blue jeans that he wore also possessed such filth; the black, steel-toed boots had scuffs and scrapes visible on them. Big Mac’s black hair stuck out from under his dark navy blue hat; the hat was somewhat worn at the edges, showing it was very faithful to its owner. There were some notable oil stains on the cap itself; its brim seemed free of any filth from the workplace. The man smiled at his boss, grey five o’clock shadow on his face as he walked up to him, rubbing the oil on his hands off in a towel, showing his slightly Caucasian skin tone for a man being from Scotland; the light grey five o’clock shadow had little facial hair, but enough to give the appearance of very fine stubble. His hands were rather large, but proportional to his body and arms; it seemed to suit the rather massive mechanic well.  
“I got great news for you”, the five foot eleven inch giant smiled as he stopped in front of him; Victor tried his best not to wince. Good news usually meant more customers, and more filth in the more than what was already stuck inside the garage. “We got three more customers!” “Oh, great”, Victor sighed sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he responded to Big Mac; the Scotsman’s smile faded somewhat while he continued wiping his hands clean of the grease and grime. Surely, Big Mac thought, this would have made Victor happy to know more business was coming in; he also forgot his boss liked things to be neat, clean, and orderly. “Hey, boss, stop your sarcasm. It’s great that we get more an’ more customers!” Big Mac smiled as he tucked the oil stained towel into his left butt pocket of his jeans; the cloth fit halfway as it was sloppily pushed in with his left index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers. All four barely fit in the jeans by themselves anyways; Victor walked towards a somewhat lime-green 1985 Emerycraft town car. The Scottish mechanic followed dutifully after him; he was hoping to impress his employer and longtime friend.  
“I’m working on the ’85 Emerycraft!” Big Mac smiled as he followed Victor to the car; the Cuban man took a quick glance as he grabbed the clipboard that rested on the rolling tool chest; it had the papers which listed what the customer asked and had been reccommended for his car. Four of the six items on the list had a little check mark next to the bolded words; Victor studied it carefully before beginning to make any inquiries to his employee. “Did you change the oil?” Victor began, looking to the right of the corners of his eyes to Big Mac; the Scotsman’s smile grew larger upon sight. “Oil’s changed, tires rotated, and washer fluid’s been replaced and topped off!” Big Mac chuckled proudly, gently crossing his arms over his torso; he was impressed with his handiwork. “Hmm, what about the rear axle box? What’s wrong with it?” Victor scrutinized as he flashed his eyes from the clipboard to the part on the car; it was on the lift, and it seemed it had yet to have any genuine attention paid to it.  
“Uhh, still working on that”, Big Mac replied sheepishly as he tilted his head a little to scratch it with his right index finger; a hint of red came to his facial cheeks while the Cuban man rolled his eyes in a somewhat irritated fashion, much like a teenager. His head followed the direction he rolled his eyes very subtly; Big Mac gave a few nervous chuckles before being addressed again. “Get to work on it, quickly”, Victor said as he tossed the clipboard over his shoulder, and left Big Mac to go into a somewhat dive to catch it; clattering tools and some clanging found Big Mac on the floor of the garage, holding the clipboard in his right hand while his left raised the brim of his cap back to its usual height. He watched Victor walk to another part of the garage, towards a dark silvery-gray Grand Touring Sport Coupe; a tool perched comfortably on the edge of the rolling tool rack fell off and landed onto Big Mac’s head before clanging to the ground. The Scotsman’s head moved down and then back up after the impact; his eyes had closed and then opened in unison as well. His blue eyes found that the tool was in front of him; it was a simple wrench that had fallen off and sought revenge for not being put away properly.  
Victor headed over to a man working on a 1998 Grand Touring Sport Coupe; the fellow was underneath the car, the only part of his body visible were his stained blue jeans. Victor put his right foot on the board, and whisked it out from under the car; the wheels rattled noisily as it was suddenly stopped. The fellow looked a little surprised, but when he saw Victor, he was all smiles; his face was somewhat pudgy, but kind nonetheless. Sitting up, he fixed his navy blue hat with his right hand as he greeted Victor. “’Ello Victor!” a South London accented man smiled, his face slightly pudgy despite his muscular build; he seemed to gain muscle, but not lose the fat that somehow went to his face. “How are you today?” “Very bad”, he replied, sighing quietly as he turned his head to the left in response to a loud clanging noise; he heard Big Mac groan and mutter something as the Scotsman got up from the floor, his left hand rubbing the top of his head. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that”, the man answered, a slightly discontented frown on his face; a small frown and unhappiness sat upon his face.  
His black hair stuck out noticably from underneath the dark navy blue cap’s brim; his attire matched Big Mac’s almost identically, save for it being a tint lighter of a dark navy blue and less oil and grease stains. His polo shirt’s short sleeves were not, essentially, vomiting his built triceps; they were still stretched to their limit by the size of them. “Warrior”, Victor began looking into his employee’s blue eyes; Warrior then gave a puzzled expression with a somewhat protruding bottom lip. “What are you doing?” “Who? Me? Oh. Yes. Uhm”, the five foot ten inch man stuttered, looking rather confused while speaking; it seemed as though he were trying to find the clipboard with the job requirements. He had accidentally left it beneath the car; it was on the car’s right hand side. “I’m replacing a few nuts and bolts, here and there. Fella wanted me to change the oil, and tighten a few bolts. Complained of a bumpy bit here and there”, Warrior smiled, moving the wrench in his Caucasian skin toned hands from one to the other; despite working beneath a car, usually a very filthy place, his hands were completely clean. Victor smiled as he gave Warrior a thumbs-up with his right thumb; he looked over his right shoulder while he soon walked away to another part of the estate. “Great job, Warrior. Keep it up!” Victor called as he went to the back lot; the Englishman felt a sense of pride and accomplishment from the two single statements. Warrior smiled broadly as he wheeled himself under the car once more; he worked on replacing worn nuts and bolts with new ones.  
Victor sighed as he walked out into the back lot; he had a very small headache for merely examining his business. He saw a Capitol Motors Behemoth XLI four-door Security SUV waiting patiently for its owner. Its orange security lights atop the roof were dead, lifeless, and the vehicle itself looked stern all in its own; its colour configuration was a black front and matching rear, with the midsection having all four vehicle doors white. He looked around. It was an empty lot, with lots of oil stains and discarded car parts. In one of the further corners was the familiar steel garbage dumpster; it had small dents and scrapes on it. He ran his right hand underneath his cap, and it lifted slightly as he sighed a little depressed; the Cuban man had quite a bit on his mind.  
“Victor? What’re you doing?” a hushed and sounding angry voice asked out of nowhere. “OH! Bert!” Victor cried as he jumped in surprise; his eyes shrank in response as his hat fell off his head and onto the pavement. “What are you doing?!” he asked as he bent down to pick up his hat; his right hand reached for it as he looked up to face the unexpected visitor before focusing on what Victor was doing. “Just wandering from town to town”, Bert answered, his hands in his pants’ pockets; Victor seemed to grumble beneath his breath as he stood back up. Victor put his cap back on, and he looked up. Looking up another five inches, he looked at Bert in his black eyes; Victor felt highly uncomfortable as he felt he was looking into an eternal abyss of nothingness.  
Just like Big Mac and Warrior, Bert’s black hair stuck out from underneath his grey-black hat; it possessed singe marks from his occupation. His grey-black trench coat had short sleeves, his black boots came up to his knee-cap; his grey pants, like his hat and coat, had noticeable singe marks. Much like Big Mac, Bert also possessed five o’clock shadow; its grey colour matched his clothing perfectly. “What do you want now?” Victor asked as he looked angrily into Bert’s pitch black eyes; he quickly looked away, feeling highly uncomfortable. “You know me”, Bert stated without a care at all; he looked about the empty parking lot lackadaisically. “A smelter looking for stuff to smelt, crush, pretty much make it suffer until we recycle it.”  
“Well, we don’t have anything”, Victor grumbled with a frown; he crossed his arms over his torso while Bert redirected his attention to the young man before him. “Something on your mind?” Bert asked, getting Victor to eyeball the newcomer from the left corners of his eyes; before he could answer, both turned towards the garage as they heard something. “Hey, Victor!” called Big Mac, his head the only thing seen from the building’s large vehicle entrance; his right hand held the wall for support. “Yes?” Victor replied as he turned around, inadvertently ignoring Bert; the smelter’s head was turned to the right to watch the Cuban man handle business with the Scotsman. “We got a copper looking for his SUV!” “That must be Richard”, Victor sighed quietly, looking down slightly before raising it back to its appropriate height it was before replying. “Show him out here please!” “Got it boss!” Big Mac yelled as he went back into the garage; both men were left alone again.  
Bert chuckled inaudibly, shown by the very subtle motion of his shoulders going up and down; Victor seemed to scowl subtly about his friend’s snickering. “Anyway”, Victor continued, returning his focus to Bert; he could be a jerk in return to Bert being one for no apparent reason. “I have a question for you: How did you get that ‘Iron’ part in your name of ‘Iron Bert’?” “Long story”, Bert said, his tone showing he was clearly in no mood to talk about the matter. “Wouldn’t interest you anyways.” Soon, Big Mac and an officer of the law walked out towards the two men; the officer looked sharp from his head down to his toes in his freshly pressed police uniform. His badge and nametag shone their bright gold in the afternoon sunlight. “Ah, Richard”, Victor said warmly as the officer tilted his hat upwards with his right hand as he smiled at Victor; his teeth were a pearly white as he smiled happily. As he slowed to a standstill to converse with the head mechanic, Richard suddenly retained a serious look as Bert gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement to him; Bert gave a subtle and very quiet huff in response to the sudden strictness of the officer.  
“How’s my baby?” Richard asked, his hands on his waistline with a nice smile on his face; he instantly relaxed with Victor and Big Mac. “Purring like a kitten”, Victor smiled, a chuckle heard in his voice as he kept his focus on the officer of the law; he pointed out the Scotsman with his right index finger as he spoke. “Big Mac gave her a once over, and a good polish.” Big Mac chuckled as he lifted his cap a little with his right hand while he used his other hand to shake the Caucasian man’s. Richard pulled out his wallet, and removed two twenty dollar bills with his right hand; he was a fairly good man for tipping those who toiled with manual labour. “For you and Warrior”, Richard smiled, insisting that the man take the money by gently ushering the bills to Big Mac; the Scotsman believed only five dollars apiece to each man was sufficient enough whereas Richard did not. “I know the two of you washed and polished her.” “Oh, alright”, Big Mac smiled as reluctantly took the two twenties; the officer had won him over. “Richard”, Bert said, knowing the exact temperament he was going to receive from the officer; Victor and Big Mac remained respectfully silent as Richard scowled while turning to face Bert.  
“What do you need?” Richard said, somewhat upset; his voice’s tone signified indignity and anger. “I don’t know when, but there is going to be an accident.” “There’s one everyday!” he laughed loudly, completely skeptical about Bert’s response to his inquiry; now Bert scowled by merely squinting his eyes, harshening his glare at the officer. He knew what to say in order to get Richard to behave seriously; he was more than willing to go there. “Someone’s going to die.” Silence fell almost instantaneously, making both Victor and Big Mac uneasy as Richard stared sternly for a moment at Bert, whose demeanour was one that hardly ever changed; both mechanics could only wonder what was bound to happen next.  
“What do you know?” Richard said like a stern police officer, trying to get as much information as he could; he had a notepad and pen ready in both hands as he took notes over Bert’s prophecy. “It’s going to start as a train derailment, then, there’ll be a chemical fog, then a massive fireball.” “When?” “I just told you, I don’t know”, Bert answered, refusing to disclose any further information; the other three men got the feeling that Bert was hiding something. “Why don’t I believe you?” Richard said as he lowered the pen and notepad; Bert’s response was far more of a casino gamble than actual threat. “Hundred dollars someone dies tonight”, Bert said, sticking out his right hand to be shaken; Richard put the pen in his left hand with the notepad as he shook hands, taking the bet. A police siren chirped as red and blue lights flashed from a Capitol Motors Colossus car as it pulled into the back lot; all attention was on it from all four men.  
Richard shook his head with a look of disgrace and humiliation as the police car stopped and the lights turned off. The white driver’s side door opened, and a young Caucasian man stepped out; Bert blinked once before moving his eyes about slowly, scrutinizing the area. Big Mac had his attention on the officer whereas Richard shook his head from left to right in embarrassment for some unknown reason to the two mechanics. The newcomer’s badge shone in the sun, and he retained a serious look as though he were going to arrest someone; he walked straight up to Victor, who was easily on edge. What had he done wrong to have the law go after him?  
“Hello Officer”, Victor began, slightly worried at the sudden appearance of the officer. The officer had a youthful appearance to him, and Victor thought he recognized him, but was not sure; he had mistaken an officer for a friend in the past. “Silence Garcia!” he snapped, glaring slightly at the Cuban man; his young voice was harsh and unforgiving. Victor exchanged a nervous look between Iron Bert and Big Mac as he recoiled somewhat from the bark; Bert displayed indifference whereas Big Mac had concern. He could try and reason with the officer if he knew what to say and do; it was better than having his boss arrested under wrongful prosecution. “Hey, Officer, I think you got the wrong Garcia”, Big Mac began as he approached the police officer; he displayed the palm of his right hand as he encroached peacefully. “No, this is the one I’m looking for”, he said as he adjusted his belt with both his hands, Big Mac stopping a few feet from the enforcer of the law; he and Victor were both very uncertain of what was to come now, unlike one of the four men in the group.  
“You never keep in contact!” the officer said with a broad grin as he spread his arms wide open, Big Mac and Victor flinching slightly in response; Richard groaned audibly as Bert gently removed his right hand from his pants’ pocket and gently placed it on Richard’s left shoulder. His kind notion was met with hostility as Richard spitefully shrugged it off; Bert returned his right hand to his pants’ pocket. “Howya been Victor!?” “Axle!” Victor laughed as he embraced the young officer; both descended into hearty chuckles while Big Mac wiped his brow with the back of his right forearm. “You scared the daylights out of me!” “Sorry”, Axle chuckled as he fixed his hat with both his hands; his right index finger wiped a tear from his right eye as he finished his chuckles. “I just couldn’t resist.” “McFarland, McFarland, McFarland”, Richard sighed, his head in a downward angle as he moved it left to right in disgrace, his left arm across his stomach as his left hand held his right elbow, his right middle and index fingers, with his thumb, rested near his right temple. “Won’t you ever learn this is a responsible job, for a RESPONSIBLE MAN?” “Aw, give it a rest, you grouch”, the black haired officer smirked slightly pompously; he had enjoyed his friendly prank. His green eyes complimented his height as the five foot eight inch officer stood up to the muscular five foot ten inch officer that was Richard; easily, one officer could pummel the other to a pulp without hesitation.  
“You aren’t ready for the job”, Richard began, showing that he knew what it took for various positions in the law enforcement occupation; Axle seemed to be completely content with himself with the expression that sat on his face. “You’re only a patrolman because you got lucky on the test. VERY lucky”, Richard hissed as he glared at Axle; the mechanics easily noted how Richard was controlling his anger to keep from pummeling the younger, much more attractive Axle. “Get over it, Kensington”, Axle said coolly, easily shrugging off his brother in the job with a rotation of his right wrist; Richard seethed with fury as Bert stood and enjoyed the show. “I told you, my last name isn’t Kensington”, Richard grumbled discontentedly; it was clear by the grumbling alone that Richard suffered this problem on numerous occasions. “It’s Roberts. ROBERTS.” “Yeah yeah, whatever”, Axle said as he eyed his hand, ignoring Richard. Richard growled as Axle spoke to Victor; Big Mac had been able to soothe the officer’s temper somewhat by raising conversation with him about things in his life.  
“So, I hear you’re one of the new patrolmen out here”, Victor smiled, patting Axle’s left arm with his right hand; out of the corner of his eye, Victor spied Big Mac calming Richard with friendly chat. “Yeah”, Axle smiled happily, content with his job; he and Victor kept busy with their conversation as Big Mac and Richard kept themselves preoccupied with theirs. “Marion’s the other.” “’Marion Capone’ Marion?” Victor asked nervously, showing he may have recognized the officer’s name; again, another familiar officer. “Yeah, he’s a good guy”, Axle said, his hands on his belt, a smile on his face as he looked to his friend; a smile grew on his face as he turned to face a much more calmed Richard. “Anyway, I have to go. Got patrolling duties. What’s Richy here got? Security duties? Aw, too bad!” Axle teased, clearly trying to irritate the other officer; it had worked far more easily than anyone, save for Bert, would have expected, particularly with Axle’s last statement before his departure. “Man up, like me!”  
“You’re not even a man!” Richard yelled as he lunged towards Axle McFarland; Big Mac threw out his arms as he caught an enraged Richard Roberts. Axle laughed as he entered his patrol car and Big Mac calmed Richard down; the engine of the patrol unit purred after it was turned on. The patrol car reversed out of the lot, and drove away. Richard growled angrily while Big Mac tried to calm him down; it was certainly very difficult to actually pacify a muscleman of an officer when he matched the Scotsman’s height. Victor, meanwhile, took the time to speak with Iron Bert; he approached the smelter uneasily.  
“How did you know about an explosion?” Victor asked uncomfortably, looking up at Bert, who remained unchanged in his posture and demeanour. “I know everything”, Bert said without looking at Victor; Victor followed Bert’s eyes. He found the smelter’s focus was on Axle’s patrol car driving off into the distance. “But a train wreck turning south?” I don’t even believe it”, Victor said strolling up to Bert, now standing directly on the man’s right hand side. “Yeah? Well”, Bert said as he saw a freight train’s last car roll down the line, the end-of-train mechanism flickering its red light on and off monotonously as it followed the rest of the train down the railroad tracks; screeching was faintly heard as the train was moving at a sluggish pace. “You’ll believe soon enough.”  
Meanwhile in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, 124 miles northwest of Texarkana, a Union Pacific freight train was being put together; rolling stock clattered about the yard as remote controlled diesels and workers got things organized for the goods train. The engineer of the train, Samuel “Diesel” Diesilonious, was getting ready for the job ahead; he would man the train being pieced together in the Pine Bluff rail yard. The conductor of the train, Cecil Fortony, was also getting ready for the long haul ahead. The two men had worked together on previous hauls, but to haul from Pine Bluff, Arkansas to El Paso, Texas, is an 846 mile long trip. With refreshment crews waiting in Fort Worth to take over, 316 miles away, a company van would ferry them home. The two men had not been called in yet, as some freight cars were still being waited on. The two men knew the trip was going to be like any other regular freight haul they had done in the past. What the two men did not know is that this haul would nearly cost them their lives.  
Back at Automen, Victor’s college friend and personal financer, Hercules, had arrived unannounced; the only reason for his being noticed were the silent, and thoroughly surprised, gasps from customers. The five foot eleven gentleman greeted everyone he met with a nice smile and a warm greeting; he was almost as notorious for doing such a courteous notion as he was famous. “Hello ma’dears”, his politically correct English voice flowed with a certain silky smooth suave flair to it; the accent in his voice and its tone almost seduced every woman or man, if homosexual, to ask him out for a date or his mobile contact number. Women and young ladies tittered and swooned in their seats as the man walked past them; his polished jet black dress shoes mellifluously made and broke contact with the floor in the customer waiting area.  
“Hello, Victor, old darling”, Hercules smiled, his upper jaw of pearly white teeth visible; his moustache was the next order of business to admire for both sexes. Above his upper lip, a regal English gentleman’s moustache very well maintained without fuss; it was separated at the center of the upper lip, matching its exact height but then shrinking downwards at an angle from the peak of the height until it reached the ends of the lips, to which the tips of the moustache were neatly trimmed to prevent it from going past the corners of his mouth. Both halves looked like an obtuse triangle, but seemed to suit him due to his persona. His large golden-yellow glasses covered his eyes, the lenses’ colour a tinted yellow, but his black hair had a little curl right in between his eyebrows; it was often easier to see when he removed his custom made hat. Following his glasses’ legs, his sideburns were straight, disciplined, and very orderly, nearing his jaw before stopping. The hat upon the gentleman’s head had a brim no more than three finger-lengths away from his nose; its bill was black as it was a bit of a slope at the front. It would then gently decline to a more acceptable level at the back end of it; the bottom half of it was a light baby blue and the top a cloud white. His smile was always considered worth more than gold itself; common people who had seen Hercules in various photographs with his smile often claimed he could blind someone with how shiny his teeth were.  
He was often found wearing rather expensive suits, yet, when asked about the cost or manufacturer, the Englishman surprised everyone with his reply of, “I made this myself, sweetheart.” His brown eyes were considered, by many women, the eighth wonder of the world; rumour had it that the gentleman possessed the ability to make both men and women melt into a pile of infatuated mush each time he looked directly into their eyes with his own. His rather well-mannered personality made him popular with many people, and he was often on the Top Five Sexiest Men list, and constantly had press reporters swarm him, and, more than likely, granted few news channels exclusive interviews. His wealth came from his family, who made good decisions in which bonds to invest; he also owned several small businesses, which had enormous profits merely from having the say that Hercules owned and operated the business.  
Today, the gentleman was wearing a heavenly white business suit, underneath a light blue button up shirt with a blue tie; he had decided to match the colour configuration of his hat. His pants were a nice jet black, and his shoes matched his pants; women swooned and tittered like schoolgirls as the gentleman rested his forearms on the check-in/check-out counter. His facial expression was very calming and relaxing; his eyes were half-open, and he kept his spine in perfect alignment. He kept eye contact with the surprised Cuban man, who was extremely surprised; he found all his female customers blushing fiercely. He was both amused, and slightly worried about those who were married; would they pick a fight with the gentleman?  
“Hercules!” Victor cried in alarm, knowing Hercules hardly ever visited small businesses he owned and struggling to regain hold of a clipboard he was once holding with both hands; he struggled to control himself behind the counter as he tried to catch falling things. “What are you doing here?! To what do I owe the—” “Quiet, Victor”, Hercules chuckled as he quieted Victor by placing Victor’s own right hand on his mouth, catching the clipboard with his right hand, and gently handing it to the Cuban man; Victor blushed somewhat in embarrassment. “Why shouldn’t I visit my old college buddy, hmm?” Hercules smiled as Victor did the same; the Cuban man quickly set to work reorganizing the check-out counter. “Say, Victor”, Hercules began, trying to articulate something before being cut off by his friend; the gentleman had now rested only his left forearm on the counter as his right arm was in the air. “Hercules”, Victor said, politely interrupting his friend with a gentle wave of his left hand. “You don’t owe me anything. The garage is enough.” “Very well then”, Hercules chuckled, a slightly cheesy smile on his face as he shrugged his shoulders gently and very respectively; Victor acknowledged the presences of a guest, and had some common sense to make the kind offer for a beverage.  
“Care for a cup of coffee?” Victor asked, looking to his right to his friend. “No thank you”, Hercules chuckled as he waved his hands back and forth, helping him to reinforce his answer; he possessed the cheesy smile on his face. His moustache curled up with his very smile of slight hesitancy; his eyes were mostly visible as he kept a kind personage about him. From the left hand corner of the waiting area, Victor faintly heard the sound of women squealing; Hercules was becoming almost notorious for being himself in the small business. “How’s the business, hmm?” Hercules asked, his right hand moving as he posed the question; he was simply making small talk as his cheesy smile and mostly opened eyes changed to a warm, somewhat large smile and half-open eyes. “It’s going very well”, Victor began, almost content with his answer; a smile was prominent on his face as he looked about the half-full customer waiting area. “Thanks to Big Mac and Warrior, the employees, and, of course, your generous donation.”  
“Hahaha”, Hercules chuckled, his upper jaw of pearly white teeth seen again as his shoulders moved up and down with the laughter; Victor himself could not help chuckling. “It’s nothing I couldn’t have done for an old college friend old chap.” “Say, Hercules”, Victor started, turning to face his well-dressed and well-groomed friend; the gentleman now stood with both his arms off the counter. His left hand was in his dress pants’ pocket, and his right curled into a gentlemanly fist as he held it near his dress shirt’s collar, as though he were to adjust it. “Do you know how to repair a semi engine? A guest arrived with a troubled semi cab not too long ago”, the Cuban man said, thinking Hercules would not know; it was just natural assumption. “Of course, Victor, ma’dear”, Hercules said, surprising Victor somewhat; the Cuban man had widened eyes in response to the answer. Hercules, smiling warmly, followed the Cuban man as they walked into the garage; his dress shoes made and broke harmonious contact with the tile as the noise faded with the two men’s departure.  
The two headed into the garage to see a 2002 Kenworth dark green flat-nosed semi cab; its cab was up and tilted away from the chassis of the semi. The matching two axle box trailer was in the employee parking lot; its supporting legs held it upright as it waited to be reunited with its semi that hauled it. A man in dark blue jeans was immersed in the cab; the jeans were worn with signs of wear, tear, and a great deal of harsh movement. Oil stains, in addition to coffee and carbonated beverages, were somewhat prominent on them. Clicking accompanied his hand turning a wrench. “Hello there!” Victor said in an angry manner, his arms crossing over his torso almost immediately; another freeloading trucker thinking he can use a garage’s resources without any permission whatsoever. One of so many things that irked the Cuban man so very much without needing to clarify why to anyone; it was simple disrespect and theft of company property.  
The man jumped and hit his head on the cab of the truck, in response to the unexpected arrival of someone. Grumbling and rubbing the spot on his head that had hit the truck with his right hand, he stood to his height, and looked down on Victor and Hercules; a crosspatch expression was prominent on his face, until he saw the gentleman with golden-yellow glasses. “Hercules?” the Caucasian man’s gruff voice said in a confused tone; his facial expression was now one of great confusion. “Gil? Is that really you old chap?” Hercules said with a big smile on his face; his right eyebrow was raised as he was holding back his enthusiasm. “Hey!” the two men cried as they embraced, Hercules chuckling while hugging Gil; it was clear both were old friends from times past. “Eeh”, Victor said, disgusted; an immaculately clean gentleman hugging a grubby trucker? Absolutely revolting, in the Cuban’s eyes anyways.  
“How have you been old boy, hmm?” Hercules smiled, his hands on the trucker’s shoulders; it was almost like a father-son reunion after a rather prolonged amount of time. “Been better”, Gil answered, shrugging his shoulders casually; Hercules brought his hands back to himself, then warmly slid them into his dress pants’ pockets. The trucker’s brown eyes complimented his black hair, just like Big Mac and Warrior’s, which stuck out from underneath his dark green hat. His dark green polo matched the truck’s colour; both the hat and shirt possessed ground in grease and grime, which would take several months to wash out completely. Using the wrench, he pointed to the engine as he told Hercules and Victor, “The engine’s been acting up, and I can’t seem to fix it.” “Did you try releasing the clutch, old boy?” Hercules asked, a slightly detective-like expression on his face; Victor looked to the gentleman then to the trucker, who complied with Hercules’ advice. Gil threw the cab down, and climbed in, and fiddled with a switch in the cab. He started the semi, and it began to purr like a kitten. Hercules smiled contentedly as Gil shut the truck off. Gil held his right hand up, and waved it at Victor to indicate to not to say a word; his right index finger was straight up directly, as the others were curled up.  
“So”, Hercules sighed, gently dusting off his suit’s jacket with his right and left hands. “What’s going on here, Gil old boy?” “Hmm”, he mumbled as he rubbed his light grey five o’clock chin with an oil drenched right hand; somehow, the oil did not rub off onto his chin. “I’m moving”, he said after a moment. “Really? Where to, eh?” Hercules inquired; he possessed the posture of a federal detective. His curious tone alone was enough to make Victor curious himself. “Fort Worth. Umm, think, Tarrant County.” “Northeastern Tarrant?” Hercules asked, his expression one of slight uncertainty; it was as though the gentleman was trying to hide something. “Yeah. Street’s name is Rushmore Court, or something like that”, Gil said as he tucked his right hand into his right jean pocket. “Well, I’ll see you around”, Hercules smiled, smiling grandly in delight. “I live in that area as well old boy.” “Cool. Don’t mean to be rude or nothin’, but, could I—” Gil began, motioning to his semi cab. “Of course, ma’dear”, Hercules smiled sheepishly, the dimples forming in his cheeks as he looked embarrassed; a slight red colour came to his cheeks as he quickly took action. “Toodaloo”, Hercules said as he gently pushed Victor to get him to move; the palms of the gentleman’s hands were gently on the Cuban man’s back as both returned to the customer waiting area.  
Back in the waiting area, Victor spoke once more to Hercules. “So, which car are you driving this week?” he smiled as he stoked conversation yet again with his college friend. “Today, hmm? Well”, Hercules said, slightly thoughtful in his speech. “I’m driving my 1951 Hudson Hornet old chap.” “That old thing?” Victor said in disgust; it was clear he had a distaste for old vehicles. “Go with your ‘03 Cadillac.” “I prefer 1900s cars, not modern ones I’m afraid. Well not so much. Not like Constazo I’m afraid sweetheart”, Hercules smiled warmly, fatherly in his nature. “‘Constazo Della Corsa’ Constazo?” Victor asked in disbelief. “I never told you?” Hercules said, sounding unhappy. “I lived in Italy for ten years. Helped the young man get a great singing career in Europe”, Hercules smiled, a chuckle heard in his voice as he spoke. “He sings the songs to the album of the ‘009 Sound System’.” “No way!” Victor said in delighted disbelief. “Way”, Hercules smiled, trying not to chuckle. It was not often the gentleman acted in a slightly more societal acceptable fashion. “He owns a Maserati Quattroporte. The car’s green colour matches his hair and eyes.” “I love the 009 Sound System!” Victor smiled, his jaw dropped as he gawked. “He’s very modest and humble, and he’ll often hold charity concerts”, Hercules said as he relaxed on the counter filled with cups, drink dispensers, and other things for liquid beverages. “This a soda bar old darling?” Hercules asked curiously, looking at it. “Yep”, Victor said without a single care. “Why?”  
The next thing Victor knew is that Hercules was behind the counter, wiping it off with a cloth, and looked just like a soda jerk from the 1920s; a line of customers lined up almost instantly. “May I get you anything?” Hercules asked as he continued to wipe the counter; he was preparing for many orders to be requested and filled. Victor chuckled heartily in response to seeing the line form for the soda bar; mostly women were in the queue. “I hope you don’t start this as a job”, he teased Hercules, who gave him a warm smile in return. “I’d never be able to pay you. The tips alone would give you your pay check!”  
Bert walked in unnoticed, as he was notorious for. He nodded noticeably to the two men; even though it was a very subtle up and down nod of his head, it was able to be seen. “Hello Bert old chap”, Hercules smiled as the smelter walked past in his nonchalant, rather intriguingly suave way; the gentleman gently gave a warm greeting with his hat. His right index finger and thumb gently grasped the brim of the cap and raised it up; he lowered it shortly after getting a signature motion of acknowledgement from Bert. “Heya.” “He’s told me there’ll be a train wreck going south!” Victor confided to Hercules, making sure none of the customers heard him; his palm of his left hand faced the customers as he whispered the prophecy. He was careful to cover his mouth and prevent panic. “And you don’t believe him because of what old chap?” Hercules retorted in a calm, sooth voice; he was whipping up a few drinks and marveling a crowd without hesitation. “You can’t ever trust a murderer!” Victor growled, hoping to make his friend see some sense; he scowled as he whispered his response through gritted teeth. “Perhaps you don’t do enough research”, Hercules said as he poured Dr Pepper into a glass with ice; a squealing teenager had touched his right hand as he handed her the beverage with a loving smile and a wink of his left eye.  
“You don’t do your research, you don’t do your homework, and you don’t get a good grade I’m afraid old darling.” “He’s a murderer! He killed his own friend!” Victor said, trying to get Hercules to come to sense; the gentleman, on the contrary, possessed knowledge of the globally notorious smelter far more than even Victor thought possible. “Or perhaps”, Hercules said as he handed a teenager his drink, who was, again, ecstatic from merely feeling the back of the gentleman’s right hand touch hers. “His friend forced him to let go.” Victor looked confused; thankfully, none of the customers had heard nor noticed the confusion on the manager’s face. “What do you mean?” “Proteus had a severe case of depression old thing; worst one for a psychiatrist to ever diagnose I’m afraid”, Hercules said as he had a drink carrier loaded with four empty cups, each having a certain level of ice in them. “Proteus had a knife, and may have stabbed Iron Bert’s hand, which made him let go”, Hercules said as he poured the drinks into their cups; he had a small group of young women tittering as he worked.  
Victor was hushed. He had never thought of that situation before; he had only perceived that Bert had let Proteus fall to his death. As Victor opened his mouth to ask Hercules how he knew that, Hercules stopped him. “Don’t judge until you find all the facts old darling”, Hercules said without looking at Victor; he continued to dazzle the crowd watching him prepare drinks. Victor soon felt guilty, but Hercules addressed this feeling. “It happens to everyone I’m afraid old darling”, Hercules sighed lovingly, slightly comforting Victor. “You’re not the first to find out about this fact. That’s why he always wears gloves. He doesn’t want anyone to see the way he lost his friend. It pains him, and the world sees him emotionless, although he is more than capable with his emotions, he takes out his frustrations on creating new things, expanding horizons, and smelting things.”  
Victor kept opening and closing his mouth. He could not say a word. Hercules had just schooled him, without even bragging, or showing off. Just putting it in a different context and an extremely different point of view changed everything without fail. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend, Hercules”, Big Mac smiled as he and Warrior walked in. Almost instinctively, they walked over to the soda bar. “’Ello Hercules”, Warrior smiled warmly, clearly delighted to see the gentleman. “Hello old darling”, Hercules smiled, his demeanour and mannerisms warm and gentle. “Say, did you hear about Bert’s prediction?” Big Mac asked as he leaned on his right elbow, indicating Bert with his left thumb. “The train derailment turning sour? Yes, I’ve heard old boy”, Hercules said as he took a towel with both hands and dried a glass cup with it. “I didn’t know about it”, Warrior said innocently, looking at each of the men in the group. “Honest.” “No-one’s blaming you for not knowin’” Big Mac smiled, trying not to chuckle at Warrior’s heartfelt honesty; he rubbed Warrior’s back with his left hand. “I don’t trust that Bert. Not one bit”, he whispered to the group. “Well, why not?” Hercules said as he put the glass up. “Haven’t you heard? He’s kidnapped a little girl and is raising her!” Big Mac said in disbelief, as though Hercules was slowly losing his mind; the palm of his left hand faced customers as his mouth was covered by the back of his hand.  
Hercules sighed quietly as he told Big Mac, “Just like I told Victor Big Mac ma’dear, you don’t do your research, you don’t do your homework, and you don’t get a good grade.” “What?” Big Mac said, confused and rather bewildered; his facial expression had seriousness written in it, but his eyes stated great confusion. “Perhaps he took that little girl from a bad situation that could’ve turned worse, and gave her a better and brighter future”, Hercules said as he wiped the countertop once more. Now Big Mac was hushed. He did not know what to say. Just like Victor, Hercules schooled him in a calm and rather gentle way. It did not ruffle Big Mac’s feelings, but made him re-evaluate what he had thought. Warrior smiled as he looked at Hercules working. “You ever gonna open that restaurant?” Warrior asked, clearly showing that, for some odd reason, food was on his mind. “Hmm. I honestly don’t know Warrior”, Hercules sighed with a cheesy smile on his face.  
“Well”, Big Mac began slowly, looking cautiously about the group of friends. “I guess you’re right.” “You don’t need to feel guilty or apologize sweetheart”, Hercules said looking the muscleman in his blue eyes, filled with bewilderment. “It happens to everyone.” “Good grief!” Warrior cried out suddenly. Big Mac and Victor jumped in response. Hercules smiled warmly. “The GTSC! I completely forgot!” Warrior rushed out of the refreshments bar and back into the garage. Hercules shook his head with a smile, chuckling quietly. “Hercules, how do you do it?” Big Mac asked in a quiet voice, mesmerized by the unique ability his friend possessed. “Do what old boy?” Hercules said, once more cleaning and drying glasses. “Tell people the other perspective without bragging or laying it out in an offensive way?” Big Mac asked, clearly desiring such knowledge and technique. “Afraid I don’t know old darling. Runs in my blood, I suppose”, Hercules said, putting away the final glass and then looking directly in front of him. “Something wrong?” Victor asked cautiously, seeing that the smile slowly dissipated from his face. Hercules did not answer for what seemed an eternity.  
“No. Nothing’s wrong old boy”, Hercules said, but Big Mac knew otherwise. Hercules had not looked at either of the two men when he answered. He had a blank expression on his face, and his eyes were focused elsewhere. Big Mac followed Hercules’ eyes, using his right index and middle fingers to follow Hercules’ as a guide, and found a fire engine racing off into the distance. Hercules mouth was open a little bit, but it was not a smile or a frown. Just like a horrid picture had just unfolded and Hercules was in it. “What’re you remembering?” Big Mac asked, looking outside the door with Victor. There was no reply; both men looked to the counter. Hercules was no longer behind the counter. Iron Bert walked up to the two men as they exchanged worried and somewhat puzzled expressions.  
“He’s remembering his firefighting days”, Bert answered, now preoccupying the spot Hercules once did as the gentleman had somehow silently slipped away. “Hercules? A firefighter?” Victor and Big Mac said in disbelief. “Yep”, Bert said as he stood behind the counter and leaned on top of it. “He fought fires for five years”, Bert said without a care in the world, inspecting Hercules’ handiwork on the neglected novelty. “He worked for the Rogue Fire Department, Squadron 1. It had only been three years since his transfer from the Big Apple, and he was enjoying it immensely. The morning of the Fire of ’95, Hercules was on his way to work. He had gone to an old friend’s house to drop something off, and he was on Highway 377 when he realized he forgot something he had borrowed at his home. Luckily for him, he was still on 377, and Kroger Drive was the next intersection. He crossed the tracks, and traversed the rough and poorly maintained road. He stopped behind a line of cars. Looking to his left, he saw a big yellow school bus dropping off students at Central High School. It brought a smile to his face, but was interrupted by a green light. Turning left, he passed another school bus as he drove towards the intersection of Park Vista and North Tarrant. At that next intersection, he stopped at a red light, and saw yet another school bus. He drove home with a smile just thinking of all those bright young men and women preparing themselves for their futures. When he got home, he parked his car into the driveway and went to the front door. After fiddling with the locks, he opened the door, and entered his new house. He walked past the family room, the kitchen, and entered the utility room, in which the security pad was located. He deactivated the alarm, and then walked into the garage. He found the axe he had borrowed from his firehouse, and grabbed it. He reset the alarm, and walked through the home once more. Big, boring, brown cardboard boxes marked with words such as “Clothes” or “Pictures” were everywhere; he had yet to fully unpack. He locked the door, and got back in his car. He drove out of his neighbourhood, and took a left onto Park Vista. He once more arrived at the intersection of North Tarrant and Park Vista, and instead of going to Ray White and Kroger; he turned left, and got onto I-35.  
He arrived at the firehouse located on Meacham Boulevard at 9:30 instead of 9:15. The captain of the firehouse, needless to say, wasn’t very happy that Hercules was late, even if it was for a good intention. He asked him to put it back where he had found it, and Hercules didn’t seem bothered. He walked into the garage, in which were the five fire trucks. There were two Pierce Dash two-axle pumper trucks, Engines 50 and 55, two Pierce Quantum three-axle 75 foot long Aerial Ladder trucks, Trucks 3 and 49, and one Pierce Velocity three-axle 100 foot long Aerial Platform, Truck 1 respectively. The two ladder trucks are mostly white with a red-orange stripe on them. The two pumpers are mostly red. Truck 1 was red, the top half of the truck’s cab being white. He opened up a compartment on Truck 1, and returned the axe to its holster. He stayed and decided to polish Truck 1, which had been left out on the clean-up of the five units.  
It was now around 9:45 am at Central High School. Classes had pretty much gotten started when a student on the third floor notified a teacher of the smell of gas. The teacher called the vice principals, and they activated the fire alarms. The school had begun its evacuation, and the first call arrived at 9:55 am to the Keller Fire Department. They dispatched one unit, and when they arrived, they had been informed that there were still a number of students on the second and third floors. The firefighters got some of their equipment, such as breathing apparatus, and entered the building. They got to the second floor when they saw a student with a cigarette lighter. Despite the many orders and kind requests to hand it over, he ran upstairs and the firefighters followed. He stopped them by flicking the top off. They encroached cautiously, and the kid flicked it on, and dropped it. The fire had begun. The firefighters took him, and sent out another alarm. The Watauga Fire Department located on Hightower Drive responded, and sent their available units. When they arrived, the firefighters had just begun to connect hoses to the hydrants, and police officers had arrested the kid.”  
“Where does Hercules fit into this?” Big Mac grumbled, his facial expression and tone clearly showing he was not really in the mood to listen to Bert babble on about a fire. “Well, the call for more help hadn’t been extended to the Rogue Fire Department. It was 10:15 am, and the firehouse was still in a relative state of silence. Firefighters were reading the local newspaper in the lounging area, working out in the weight room, and were talking over cups of coffee in the kitchen. Hercules had just finished polishing Truck 1, when the alarm went off at 10:30 am. It did its usual ring to notify the firefighters, and them the Rogue Emergency Dispatcher spoke. ‘Federal Fire Alarm Firebox 50-1, please respond One-Charlie-One. Engine 50, Engine 55, Truck 3, Truck 49, Truck 1, Medic 50, Field-Com please respond. Ray White and Kroger, building fire.’ After that first sentence, the men scrambled to get their equipment. Luckily, Hercules had started to get in his firefighting uniform after the first alarm rang out. The captain yelled at his men to hurry the hell up, and they all arrived in the garage, pulling up their suspenders, putting on jackets, and climbing aboard trucks. Engines 50 and 55 were the first ones ready, and the captain ordered them away to assist. The trucks rumbled out of their garage, and their sirens wailed as they turned left onto Meacham to get to I-35. Truck 3 was ready, and was ordered to go and assist. Just like Engines 50 and 55, it did the exact same thing, and they went on. Hercules climbed on board Truck 1, and waited with uncertainty. At 10:55, Truck 49 and Truck 1 had left the firehouse. They raced on Meacham, and turned onto I-35. They sped past traffic, and the dispatcher radioed them. ‘Truck 1, where are you? The fourth alarm has been sent out, and you haven’t arrived yet.’ ‘We’re en route now, on 35 heading to Ray White and Kroger’, the captain said into the radio. ‘Roger that’, the dispatcher said, continuing communique. ‘The fourth alarm has been sent out; more units are heading toward the scene.’ Hercules looked at his fellow firefighters. ‘It’s a building fire’, one of them said, clearly stating the obvious. ‘Must be some fire’, another commented in slight skepticism. ‘To call us in to help the city, must be.’ The tension rose as they drove on. Truck 1’s driver turned onto Heritage Trace Parkway, and the black smoke was visible from there. The firefighters all exchanged worried looks amongst each other. The unit drove closer to Ray White. At this point, everyone knew this was no ordinary fire. Especially if the smoke was visible from I-35.”  
Bert stopped for a minute to drink some water. Victor and Big Mac yawned sleepily; Big Mac covered his mouth with his right hand curled into a fist and Victor the palm of his right hand. This story on Hercules’ firefighting career turned out to be one long flashback. They looked at each other after they yawned. Victor was half-awake, and Big Mac had fixed his hat and hair more times than he could have counted. Iron Bert finished a gallon of water, and he continued with a question to them both. “Either of you seen Pearl Harbour? Pictures of it?” he asked, leaning on his arms against the polished soda bar countertop. “Yes”, Victor grumbled discontentedly. “Aye”, Big Mac said, looking away. “How about ‘LADDER 49’?” “That firefighting movie?” Victor said in disgust. “Good movie”, Big Mac said as he turned back to face Iron Bert. Bert sighed heavily, due to him choosing to stretch, then went on.  
“Well, when Truck 1 arrived, it was hell. Police officers and firefighters were signaling traffic away, and more units were arriving. All roads to the school had been shut down, and an officer radioed the driver of Truck 1. ‘Put your truck on Kroger! Put your truck on Kroger! Stop traffic from coming around here. Put your truck on Kroger!’ Truck 1 stopped on Kroger, and the men jumped out. Hercules looked to his right, and he saw his version of Pearl Harbour. The second and third floors were engulfed in flames, and firefighters were leading some students to ambulances, with their masks pressed against their faces. Firefighters ran hoses to fire hydrants, were keeping parents and anxious teenagers at bay, and were trying to contain the fire. He saw a teenage boy being carried with a mask on his face by a firefighter to a LifeFlite helicopter, and helped load him onto the chopper. More firefighters had run to the command base, which was a desk with the architectural floor plans for the building, and some more ran to various ladder and pumper trucks parked around the school. He looked up, and saw seven helicopters. Four of them were Rogue Fire Department helicopters, documenting this inferno, and the other three were local news helicopters, one of them being WFAA Channel 8. He looked and saw Field-Com Unit 911 sitting in the middle of the intersection of Ray White and Kroger. The three-axle box truck was maintaining all radio contact, all personnel safety, and the intensity of the fire.  
Parents were calling their children, stopping their cars, running to their children, and screaming their heads off. Hercules saw more trucks arriving, more hoses being attached to trucks, and men commencing the attack. A hose line had been sent to Truck 1, and had been attached. Hercules followed his battalion of 52 men to the incident command post. The captain and battalion were brought up to speed. ‘We have a three story building, smoke showing from the second and third floors. Flames have been reported from the third floor. We have reports of one hundred or so students trapped on the second floor and above.’ Hercules and his fellow firefighters were in shock. They all ran to the fire truck they came on, and grabbed the necessary equipment. Air masks, oxygen tanks, flashlights, axes— They grabbed what they needed to get to any trapped occupants. As they ran to the command desk, and they said they were going to go in to find the trapped students. They grabbed two hoses, and charged into the building. Over the radio, the captain told them that the entrances and exits were the extraction point. They entered, and found a few of the trapped students. Of the fifty-one men there, six escorted them to safety. Hercules led his fellow firefighters onward to the rescue. It was 12:35 pm when Hercules had finally been ordered out.  
Ninety-seven of the one hundred trapped students had been rescued, and only three remained. As Hercules walked towards the building, he heard someone crying. He walked to a group of high school students huddling around one girl. She was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘What’s wrong sweetheart?’ he asked as he knelt down beside her, placing his right hand on her right shoulder. One of the boys in the group explained that her closest friend and her boyfriend were still missing. Hercules had worry covering his face as he listened in on the situation. After getting descriptions of the two, he turned around, and radioed the information to fellow firefighters in the building as he started to run towards the burning edifice. ‘The girl is five-foot six, with blonde hair, brown eyes. The boy is six foot, black hair, blue eyes. There should be another person with them. Find them, and get them out of there!’ Two firefighters from the other two departments were talking, and Hercules ordered them to come with him to look for the last few students. They grabbed a hose, and went inside. The conditions had worsened, and the smoke was blacker than ever. Suddenly, this radio message came out, and gave everyone some hope. ‘This is Rogue Squadron, Truck 1! We have the last three trapped occupants! We’re stuck behind debris! We don’t know how much longer before our tanks run out of air!’ Hercules and the two men ran through to them. Two of the three were unconscious, but still breathing. One of the two unconscious teenagers was a girl that fit the description Hercules had put out onto the radio. The other was the boy that had also matched the description, and he was on his own two feet. Hercules put his arm around the boy, and handed the fire hose to his men. ‘I’ll be back with more men as soon as we get them out’, he said. ‘I promise.’  
It was 1:00 pm when the first explosion had hit. It wasn’t very big, but it did bring about concern. The incident commander, Fire Chief Reginald “Red” Rogers ordered a mandatory evacuation of all men from the building. It was too little too late. The second explosion at 1:30 pm had put a large hole in the roof, and the debris had fallen in front of Hercules’ fellow firefighters. Unfortunately, Hercules and four other men were trying to control the flames so his brothers could get out. The explosion and falling debris had forced Hercules and the other four to back out to avoid injury. The debris had made the trapped men realize that their time on earth had come to an end. Hercules desperately begun to move debris when one of the fifty men trapped had gotten his attention. ‘Hercules’, he said, looking him directly in the eye. ‘We won’t get out before the place blows. We all need you to do us a favour. Take what we give you, and give them to our wives. Tell our families and friends we had joined this job to protect them, and we’ll always be with them in their hearts.’  
Hercules didn’t believe it. His fellow firefighters, his friends, his brothers were saying that this was the end. He refused, saying, in layman’s rather plain speaking terms, ‘Hell or high water, I’m going with you!’ The lieutenant shook his head sadly, and replied, ‘You and the captain are going to be the only ones left in our department to live. Please, please do us this one last favour.’ They removed wedding rings, necklaces, and wallets, and gave them to Hercules. The four firefighters had gotten orders to evacuate, and forced Hercules to leave.”  
Big Mac and Victor exchanged looks. After a moment of silence, Victor asked Bert, “What did Hercules do after that?” “After he got out of the building?” “Mhmm.” “The pipeline blew just as he and the other two had run out, and the force knocked them away. Hercules turned back, and saw the flames roaring from 100 to around 700 feet into the air. His eyes widened to where his pupils were no longer visible, and he yelled in such agony, every fire chief and police chief ran to him. They had to restrain him as best they could.” “Why?” Big Mac questioned, his expression and tone showing he was now more than interested. “He was going to run into the building to either rescue what was left of his department, or get himself killed. Red did what he could to bring Hercules to some sort of sanity, but nothing worked. Cops, firefighters, and students signaled an ambulance to be sent in their direction, and medics checked him. Perfectly fine, but his mental health state was deteriorating rapidly. That picture of him trying to get into the burning building but being restrained was in the newspapers for months, and still is every year as a reminder to the public how dangerous a firefighter’s job is. He was given the medal of honour, but he told the people to give it to his department instead. All he had done was tried to save their lives, along with the victims’ but he had failed. They awarded it to the firehouse under his request. After the ceremony, he retired from firefighting. Anytime he sees a fire truck, he always remembers that fateful day, and that’s always concerning people who see him like the two of you did. That fire ended his firefighting career, and every firehouse and every firefighter knows it all too damn well.”  
“Is he a volunteer firefighter, or?” Victor ventured as cautiously as he could; he was not sure just how volatile Bert would be in his answer. “No”, Bert answered so flatly that both Victor and Big Mac were suspiciously surprised. “He officially retired from firefighting, any method. He told the press he couldn’t stand the pain of losing all his brothers because some destructive teenager decided to ignite a gas leak.” “And the teenager? What happened to him?” Big Mac asked, wanting more information on the disaster. “Kid got life, after seventy-nine rulings in court”, Bert said, brushing off his right trench coat sleeve. “There were fifty-two firefighters in Hercules’ department, and fifty perished. The building had been reconstructed, and the kid’s still in a mental asylum. Public doesn’t trust the pyro-loving bastard. He nearly took one hundred young and future bright people’s lives, and I think that said something to all parents. Yet, in the last court ruling, Hercules was there and requested to speak to the guilty party’s family. This is what he said, and I quote: “I lost fifty of my fifty-one brothers and sisters because of you and your irresponsible actions. If I refused to forgive you or your family, it would just add to the hate in this world. I am choosing to forgive you and your family, not because I want to, but because my brothers would be saying the same thing if I had been killed. It’s the right thing, the honourable thing, that any firefighter would do.” The kid’s parents were sobbing, but the judge asked Hercules if he agreed with the ruling. All he told that judge was, “Whatever the school’s staff, students, and students’ parents vote on. I don’t really care old chap. It’s not my decision anyways.” He got his coat, swung it around his right shoulder, and exited the courtroom. That was the last time any court had seen him. When they tried to contact him, I stopped it.” “Why?”  
“I knew how bad it must hurt to lose people so close to you, and because of some immature person’s actions? Well, that just makes it worse”, Bert pointed out, Victor understanding slightly. Big Mac gave Iron Bert a hard and rather rude stare. Bert addressed him. “I’d love to see you lose someone so close to you”, Bert said coldly, his demeanour harsher than usual. “I’d love to see you lose someone so close to you, and every time you see something that reminds of that person, try and suck it up. It’d be too much for you.” Big Mac retreated a little, his facial expression of him suppressing rage. Victor looked worried. He had not known that about Hercules. “Why didn’t he tell us?” Victor said looking down, shaking his head from left to right in disbelief; he felt hurt and somewhat less trusted by the gentleman. “Hercules doesn’t tell anyone much about himself”, Bert replied, once more seen by both men brushing off his trench coat’s sleeves with the back of either of his hands. “He has too many memories, that aren’t exactly heart-warming. He’d rather not tell anyone, not to uphold his image or reputation, but to protect them.” “Protect?! What for?!” Big Mac growled raising his right hand into a fist at Iron Bert. “Probably because he gives a damn about his friends”, Iron Bert hissed as he grabbed Big Mac’s fist with his right hand, squeezing it harder and harder. Big Mac groaned as he was slowly falling to the floor. Iron Bert’s grip tightened, and Big Mac’s right arm was shaking. There were crunching noises as Iron Bert continued to tighten his grip. “Enough!” Victor cried out, catching his breath slightly as he tried to calm himself. Iron Bert released his grip, and Big Mac fell to his knees, holding his right hand in pain. “Don’t ever piss me off”, Iron Bert warned, getting a very distrusting glare from the Scotsman as he slowly returned to his feet.  
“How did you know about all this?” Victor asked, clearly forgetting an important detail about the smelter. “You told us the story with such great attention to detail.” “Don’t ask; you’ll find out in a few months. Sorry I had to tell you about Hercules’ firefighting career”, Bert said as he fixed his gloves. “Why are you apologizing?!” Victor criticized, his temperament not in good one as he glared hatefully at Bert. “Because”, Iron Bert said, looking over his right shoulder before leaving the two alone. “I’m the guy who hired him.” He walked out, leaving Big Mac and Victor alone. The gentle clomping of boots as they made and broke contact with the floor faded out with Bert’s departure; a piercing silence hung for an uncomfortably long amount of time.  
Gil passed Iron Bert as he walked in, and eyeballed Bert as the smelter walked out of the building. Shifting his look from Bert to Big Mac and Victor, he asked, “I miss somethin’?” “N-No”, Victor said as he shook his head from left to right after leaving a trance he was left in; Big Mac rubbed his right hand with his left, but his eyes looked down at the counter. “Big Mac looks as if he’s in shock”, Gil commented, eyeing the Scotsman carefully; he seemed to be inspecting the unusual behaviour of the mechanic. “I think he is”, Victor said, worried as he followed suit to the trucker. “No, I’m not”, Big Mac said as he continued to look at Bert, who had left the building and was walking aimlessly around the perimeter of the estate. “How can someone like Hercules be a firefighter and not tell his friends?” “He doesn’t tell anyone much about himself”, Gil sniffed, scratching his nose with the back of his right index finger. “He makes himself a mystery, and that’s why he’s such a great guy. So wealthy, so powerful, yet he’s shrouded in mystery.” Victor and Big Mac exchanged puzzled and stern looks; Gil snickered quietly. “Just like me.”  
“You’re not a mystery”, Victor retorted, showing that Gil was giving him nonsense. “Who got arrested for stopping a chase by ramming the getaway vehicle into a railroad signal, and used a twelve gauge shotgun to wound the armed felons?” “Didn’t you get arrested?” Big Mac said, pointing to the trucker with his left index finger with a suspicious expression on his face. Gil scowled viciously in response to the Scotsman’s inquiry, as though he had wanted to leave that fact out. “Anyway”, Victor sighed quietly, as though he had a tremendous headache; his right hand was on his forehead and his eyes were closed. His head was in a downward angle, as though he were trying to decode something in the soda bar countertop. “You’re no mystery.” “Hmph!” Gil grumbled, clearly indignant about what had just been said. Gil soon went back to the garage, and Big Mac and Victor were left alone. Big Mac looked at the clock, and decided to raise a friendly chat with his boss. He still rubbed his right hand with his left.  
“So, we close at seven or eight?” Big Mac said with a grin; he was being slightly devious with a hint of a smirk on his face. “You know we close at eight!” Victor frowned, disappointed slightly in the Scotsman’s judgment. “Come on, just trying to raise a grin”, Big Mac chortled, chuckles in his voice as he spoke. “Haha, hilarious”, Victor said with a great deal of sarcasm; he rolled his eyes towards the right and moved his head subtly in the same direction. “Look at the time, Victor”, Big Mac sighed with a smile, indicating the clock with a subtle tilt of his head towards the right at the wall where the clock was mounted on. Victor glanced at the clock once, and glanced again in a horrid realization. “Six thirty?!” Victor said surprised, wondering where the day had gotten to; it was clear he had forgotten about his two visitors, one who had attracted a crowd. “Tried to tell you”, Big Mac grunted, trying his best to suppress a smile; he was struggling not to laugh. “I guess we’ll close early”, Victor sighed as he stretched; his eyes closed as he reached one arm out, then another. They shook subtly as he took a large stretch. Big Mac chuckled with great delight.  
“Fer once”, Big Mac chuckled heartily, rubbing his chin with his right hand. “Fer once we close early!” “Don’t get used to it”, Victor sniffed, failing at being stern as the two broke out into hearty chuckles. The two packed up the soda bar, and then walked to the garage; all the customers already left and gone home, seemingly that Hercules had brought life into the entire estate. Warrior was polishing the GTSC as the men walked in; he recognized Big Mac’s boots making and breaking fluent contact with the floor. “Come on, Warrior!” Big Mac called, beckoning the London man with his left hand. “Time to head home!” “Just a sec!” Warrior replied as he finished the polish on the vehicle. Warrior walked to a tool drawer, and put up his tools. He closed the drawer, and joined Big Mac and Victor in the employee parking lot. “You two heading home?” Victor asked in genuine curiosity to his friends’ plans. “We may hit the bar before we get home”, Big Mac shrugged, showing that it was merely a place to hang out and talk. Warrior smiled broadly. “Well, see you tomorrow”, Victor said, waving a farewell by putting his right arm in the air and showing his hand as the trio of men parted ways. “Bye Victor”, Big Mac said as he waved good-bye. “Bye Victor! See you tomorrow!” Warrior called as he climbed into Big Mac’s Chevy Avalanche. The doors shut, and Big Mac turned the engine on. The vehicle pulled out of the parking lot, and drove off. Victor climbed into his Cadillac Escalade, and drove home.  
When Victor got home, he could still see the AutoMen garage, regardless it being a mile away. He turned off his car, got out, shut the door, locked the car, and went to his front door; he stopped and stood momentarily in the driveway of his property, admiring his home. It was a simple one story building; simply humble and small in its appearance, it was suitable enough for two married people to live in with two pets. It also possessed a two car garage; in all honesty, it had not been used, not once. Victor preferred to let his car collect as much daylight as it could get. Sighing with a proud smile, he bent down to pick up the newspaper, and he unlocked the door. The alarm went off, and he shut the door. Walking into his laundry room, he opened the keypad, and typed in his security code. The alarm was soon off, and his dog, a German shepherd christened “Jesus”, ran up. Victor patted Jesus on his head, and he went up the single flight of stairs to his bedroom. Jesus jumped on his bed, and Victor smiled. Jesus knew Victor was upset, and was trying to comfort him. Victor sat on his bed next to Jesus, and pet him. “Gracias, Jesus”, he said, now giving the German shepherd a comfortable belly rub. “Usted es un perro muy talentoso, y muy simpatico.”  
Meanwhile, Big Mac and Warrior were stuck at a railroad crossing, and a freight train lumbered slowly across. “So”, Warrior began, looking to his right at his friend. “Feeling alright?” “Yeah”, Big Mac said rather unhappily as he leaned on his left fist while his left arm leaned on the door of the truck. “Saw you, Victor, and Iron Bert talking. Everything alright, or did he reveal something you didn’t know about Hercules?” “What the? How did?” “Gil told me the whole story”, Warrior sighed, his lips a pudgy sad expression. “I’m sorry, Warrior”, Big Mac apologized; he rubbed Warrior’s left shoulder with his right hand. “It just hurts is all.” “I know”, Warrior said, still feeling slightly downtrodden. “Happens to you, me everybody.” The end of the train slowly clanked past; the last bogie’s wheels squeaked and screeched noisily as it went on. The bells stopped ringing and the crossing arms went up. Big Mac drove over the tracks, and headed for a diner for something to eat. Warrior smiled as he rubbed Big Mac’s right shoulder with his left hand; the Scotsman smiled in return to his friend’s kindhearted gesture. The two knew if anything ever went wrong, they always had each other, no matter what.  
Back in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Samuel and Cecil were being called to the rail yard office building. Samuel arrived at the rail yard at 9:45 pm, and Cecil arrived at 9:50, five minutes late. Samuel and Cecil had worked together on various trips, but they didn’t know this was a late night run. They received the train consist from the yard manager, and at 11:00 pm, were sent to their train. Samuel, the engineer, tested the air horn on the train, while Cecil, the conductor, tested the hand brakes. Another employee from the Union Pacific Railroad’s mechanical department had tested a successful air brake on the train. Both men climbed aboard, and the train left the yard at 11:34 pm.  
Victor settled into his bed at 11:00 pm, and turned on his television. He sighed as he caught the rerun of the ten o’clock news, and turned the television off at 11:37 pm; he yawned loudly. His arms went into the air, shook a little bit, then came back down; his eyes had been closed as he had yawned. His cell phone suddenly vibrated loudly on his nightstand, and he picked up; his eyes were fully open once more as his right hand went to the cellphone. He flipped it open and held it to his ear. “Hello?” he said, somewhat confused; he hardly ever received a phone call so late at night. “Victor? It’s Zebedee”, a Liverpudlian accented man answered; the accent was tough, criminal, and, seemingly, belonged to a man from a mafia of any kind. Victor rolled his eyes as he knew who was on the phone with.  
“Zebedee, what’s going on?” Victor said, slightly concerned that someone he knew rang up out of nonexistence. “Nothing really”, he answered, clearly lying and failing miserably; Victor grumbled quietly on his end of the phone. The Liverpudlian accented man knew he had better just give the whole truth; so, he did. “Listen, I need a favour of you.” “What kind of favour?” Victor asked suspiciously, squinting his eyes somewhat as he awaited an answer; Zebedee’s “favours” were often very shady, and very vague. “I need you to move out of Texarkana.” A moment of silence was broken as Victor had begun to laugh loudly on the phone. “Leave Texarkana?! That’s rich!!” Victor laughed, getting Jesus to look at him with a canine’s quizzical expression. “I need you to move to Fort Worth, please.” Zebedee said, trying to keep himself calm. He, too, had heard rumour of the derailment and explosion; whether or not he revealed it to the Cuban man or not was up to his discretion. Victor laughed harder.  
“Leave?! Texarkana?! What a joke!!” Victor laughed as he put his left hand on his forehead; he roared as though he were with a great group of his male friends. His face was turning a deep shade of red with his hearty laughter. Zebedee listened to Victor’s laughter from his end of the phone. He looked at the clock. It read 12:45 AM in a luminescent red. “Oh, oh, you’re killing me!” Victor gasped, struggling to still get a hold of himself. “Are you done?” Zebedee asked blatantly, clearly not entertained at all by the tone of his voice; alone from the tone of his voice, anyone could have known that Zebedee had a very grim scowling expression on his face. “So, so, let me get this straight. You want me to move from Texarkana to Fort Worth? I-I-Immediately?” Victor said, trying to retain a smile; he was also catching his breath. “Yes. Yes I do”, Zebedee said flatly, thinking Victor had finally gotten himself under control, which was proven false as Victor had burst out laughing once more. “That’s rich!! That’s richer than rich!!” Victor bellowed, beginning to pound his bed with his right hand curled into a fist. His laughter made Zebedee grow more and more frustrated. Zebedee once more looked at the digital clock in an electronics store’s windows. It now read 1:35 AM.  
The Liverpudlian accented man grew cross. Standing in a dark alleyway with his left hand holding the cellphone to his ear, he glared at people who would have been foolish enough to make any sort of an advancing on him to induce harm for a cheap robbery. As one man approached, Zebedee’s right arm slowly moved up. Despite the gasping and laughing on the end of the phone line, Zebedee kept his look on the approaching man. From his belt line, a large shimmer of light reflected off of something very long, and extremely sharp. Narrowing his eyes, Zebedee watched the man stop in his tracks, and slowly backtrack from the alleyway, continuing to keep their nervous eyes on the figure in the alleyway before disappearing. Gently sliding whatever it was back into its holster, Zebedee returned his focus to the phone call.  
Victor’s laughter was beginning to thoroughly annoy Zebedee, who once more looked at the clock. Despite catching his breath, Victor continued to laugh hysterically. The process of merely intimidating fools, even those drunk beyond their friends’ belief grew very old, and rather tedious to the man in the alley; with how much anger was building up inside him, it would have been a bloodbath if someone had foolishly gone for a fight at Zebedee. Now, two hours later, Zebedee was growing crosser and crosser as the only response he got from the Cuban was his hearty laughter. He knew he was running out of time. Seeing how he would have to take action, he remained on the phone as he stepped out of the alleyway he had once been in; he walked towards a Harley Davidson chopper motorcycle. It had a sleek and somewhat modern look to it; it suited the suspicious man well.  
A worn, light grey trench coat rested atop it. Pulling out an earpiece, connected to his phone wirelessly through Bluetooth, he put it in his right ear with his right middle and index finger; his thumb pushed it into place. Without Victor knowing, from laughing so much, he did not hear the trench coat flapping noisily as Zebedee put it on. Silence soon accompanied his earpiece as his arms went through the corresponding sleeves; empty phone static signaled to him that his call had either disconnected, or Victor had hung up on him. With the knowledge that time was his enemy, Zebedee hopped onto his motorcycle, starting it up easily; its motor revved and made sure it was heard easily. Bringing his right foot onto the side of the motorcycle, where it was easily accommodated, his right wrist twisted the acceleration handle counterclockwise; the rear tire screeched as the motorcycle remained stationary. His left foot helped him to easily perform the Hollywood hero’s turnaround; Zebedee turned heads as he made the U-turn, and roared off. The trench coat’s ends flapped noisily as he sped by; a serious expression was on his face as he pulled back on the acceleration handle even more. With ever increasing speed with hardly any other road traffic in the area, Zebedee had soon sped through Dallas, Texas, on his way to Texarkana, Arkansas.  
Meanwhile, Samuel and Cecil were riding dry rails; things were going well. The train was on schedule, ahead by only three minutes, and the engines had enough fuel to make it to the end destination without refueling. The two were speaking to each other, carrying on a friendly conversation, to help bypass the long journey to Fort Worth, Texas. “Hey, Sam, you ever find the lady you dated in high school?” “Nah, she moved on. Married some softie named Gregorio.” “Huh, that’s nice. For her anyway.” “Yeah, you would say that.” “You know what time it is?” “Uh, let me check my watch. It’s 3:45 AM.” “Where are we?” “We just passed milepost 416.4. We’re going nineteen miles per hour, and we’re in Texarkana. Huh.” “What’s up?” “I thought we were in McNeil.” “Huh, must’ve passed through.” “No, we hit a red signal in McNeil. I stopped. You were snoring like an old fart.” “Hahaha, you young people would say that.” “It’s true though.” “Yeah, you’re probably right.” “Hahaha. There’s nothing I can’t say I don’t like about you.”  
Victor was sleeping soundly at 3:50 AM. He had exhausted himself from laughing so hard, and had accidentally hung up on Zebedee. His snoring even disturbed his poor dog. Jesus whined and went out into the hall, hoping to catch some more rest there than his owner’s room. Meanwhile, Big Mac and Warrior had just gotten home from helping the police clear up an auto wreck. They had just opened the front door and walked inside; Big Mac had disarmed the alarm while Warrior shut the door behind him. “Oh”, Big Mac said, looking about at the empty and quiet household. “Didn’t expect we’d be that long clearing a wreck.” “Why?” Warrior yawned, covering his mouth with his right hand; his eyes shut as he yawned noisily. “It’s 4:00 in the morning!” “Loose lug nuts!” Warrior replied in alarm. “How do you think Hercules is doing, Big Mac?” Warrior asked drowsily, inadvertently changing the subject. “If I know Hercules”, Big Mac chortled, putting his right arm around a clearly sleepy Warrior. He helped his friend to a warm, comfortingly inviting bed; he would graciously help himself to one later. “He’s probably sound asleep by now.”  
Big Mac was far from the truth. Hercules was at a bar, serving drinks as a bartender, and he was carrying out friendly conversations; scarily enough, almost all of the patrons did not even get close to a fifth of what they usually ordered. Talking and listening to Hercules caught and held it so much that the drinks seemed to be completely ignored. Hercules glanced at his wrist watch on his right wrist with a warm smile. It read 4:04. “The 4:00 just came through”, a railroad worker sniffed as he approached the bar; he rubbed his nose with the back of his left forearm. “Really, hmm?” Hercules said, clearly inquiring for some reason; he kept the reasons to himself. “Just now, ehh?” “Yeah, was just behind a crossing ‘cause of it”, he grumbled, taking his seat at the bar’s counter. “Hahaha, don’t worry ma’dear”, Hercules chuckled as he placed a shot glass of gin in front of the man; the worker simply took the shot, drank it quickly, and paid attention to the wisdom Hercules was about to give to him. “It’ll just pass through ma’dear.” Even Hercules knew that something bad would happen, and the train would not “just pass through”.  
Meanwhile, Samuel and Cecil were still talking. “Hey, you want to rest, let me drive?” Cecil offered, being as kind as he could to Samuel; exhaust was prominent in his facial expression. “No, I’ll make it. Brought ten thermoses of coffee, so, I’ll survive”, Samuel said with exhaust in his voice; his eyes strained on the dark railroad tracks in front of them. Samuel looked at his watch. 4:10 A.M. it read. “Sam, what the hell is that?!” Cecil said as he edged on his seat; at this instant, both men were suddenly fully awake with shrunken pupils, seeing something round and sitting on the tracks before them. It was black, and had a rounded front that faced them. There was only one thing, in the railroaders’ minds, that it could be; this was not going to be pretty. “Oh shit!” Samuel said as he slammed the emergency brake, and both men ducked for cover. A sudden jolt made them hit the console, and the crew on the train being rear-ended stopped their train, and radioed the problem; metal screeched as a large, echoing noise was heard in the early morning. The crew aboard the train that had been hit applied the emergency brake, grabbed the train consist, and fled to the rail yard office; it was too dark to even see a few feet before them in the Texarkana rail yard. Samuel and Cecil grabbed their consist, after helping one another up off the floor, and ran to the office. The crews arrived at the office at the same time. The yard manager radioed the workers inside the rail yard to evacuate to the office. The other eight men arrived, and the manager was informed by Samuel and Cecil that two cars of the train they struck had derailed, and were on the ground.  
Between 4:15 and 4:25 AM, the Texarkana, Arkansas, 911 communications center received call after call of residents complaining about a chemical smell. One of the dispatchers, a female named Jessica Stewart, put another call on hold, and dialed Richard. Richard’s phone vibrated vigourously as she called. “Come on”, she said anxiously, beginning to tap her right index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers on the desk. “Pick up, Richard. Pick up.” “This is Richard, is something wrong?” his voice answered after a few tense moments. “Richard, thank God”, Jessica said, relief washing over her as heard in her voice. “Listen, there’s been a train derailment. Two cars are on the ground, and there is a chemical smell. I need you to get as many fellow officers you know, and join the others who are investigating what’s going on.” “I’m on it”, Richard said as he hung up; he sat up in bed immediately.  
He jumped out of bed, a luxurious twin bed, and ran to his closet. He reached in and pulled out two hangers; one had a freshly pressed black dress pants and another had a freshly pressed button up black dress shirt. Quickly, Richard put on his uniform, set the alarm from the master bedroom, and tore through his house at breakneck speeds; it was as though he were pursuing a criminal on foot. Shortly after slamming his locked front door, he yanked the driver’s door open to his vehicle and leapt inside. Throwing the key into the ignition and turning it clockwise, he removed the parking brake and pulled out of the driveway; he knew he would need more help, and called Marion.  
The ringing cellphone on his nightstand annoyed a sleeping Marion Capone; he had been woken up by it and tried to ignore it by falling back asleep. Tossing and turning in the darkness, his mattress’s box spring squeaked occasionally as he would move from his right side to his left and vice versa; neither helped him fall back asleep due to the consistently ringing cellphone. Whoever was calling him was very persistent, and Marion was slowly losing his patience; his sleep was as important to him as breathing was to any sane person who valued their life. Finally having had enough, Marion turned over to face his nightstand, and picked up the cellphone with his right hand; he flipped the top up and his thumb hit the “TALK” button on the keypad. Nonetheless, he was very cross to see Richard’s contact icon being the one calling him  
“What’re you doing up at five in the morning?” Marion grouched, his right hand holding the cellphone to his ear as his left scratched at an itch that plagued his bottom; alone from the tone of his voice, Marion was more than ready to slug Richard for disrupting his peaceful slumber. The instant he heard what Richard had said, Marion’s demeanour changed instantly. “There’s been an accident; train derailment to get nitty-gritty. Get up, get as many officers you know who’re off duty, and get them into action. Haul ass to Hobo Jungle and the Texarkana train yard; the accident’s happened there.” “Gotcha”, Marion said, becoming fully conscious almost instantly. He too jumped out of bed, and got his uniform on; he did not really care about a caffeinated beverage to wake him. Climbing inside his car, he drove off to the Texarkana rail yard near Hobo Jungle; having knowledge it was a train wreck, and little to no more additional information, he knew he would have to haul himself over to the reported area of the accident as quickly as he could. Disaster, he knew, would slowly unfold before responding officers’ eyes. His assumption was moving far quicker than he had actually guessed.  
“Hey, Big Mac”, Warrior said, shaking his bachelor friend gently from side to side with his left arm. “Yeah, Warrior?” Big Mac said groggily; the Scotsman was half asleep and had both his arms holding a plushy pillow. It looked more like a marshmallow squeezed to death by him; his eyes were closed and his left half of his chin had sunken into the pillow. “My eyes and throat are stinging.” “Wha—?” Big Mac said, something unknown and unusual plaguing him instantly; the instant he had raised his head to look at Warrior, that stinging sensation had plagued his throat. In surprise to the unexpected assault, his eyes opened fully before they too stung like his throat did. Before he could even finish his statement, he started to cough; Warrior had let little ones out, but was worried for himself and Big Mac now. “Come on, Warrior!” Big Mac said, waving his left hand in the motion to get Warrior to come with him; his right forearm covered his mouth and nose as he struggled to keep his eyes squinted so he could see. Tears formed instantly, but he was determined to keep his friend and himself alive. “Let’s call the police. They can help us.”  
Victor’s dog whined again, and this time the dog jumped up onto Victor’s bed, and pawed at him. “Stop it”, Victor mumbled sleepily; his back was to his dog as he barely made an effort to bat away his dog with his left hand. It simply moved back and forth, no further than the edge of his left thigh while he slept. Jesus soon grew tired of pawing, and nipped him; he instinctively knew his owner was in danger. “OH!” Victor said as he jumped up in bed; he was now fully awake and had his mouth completely open, in addition to somewhat shrunken pupils. “What’s that fo—!?” Just like Big Mac, Victor could not finish his statement. Whatever had plagued the two friends now burned his eyes and throat, as it did to them. He grabbed his cellphone off his nightstand, and dialed 911. “911, what is your emergency?” Jessica asked, hoping to not receive the same call again; her hopes were dashed as she listened to the newest caller’s problem. “I have a stinging in my eyes and throat every time I breathe”, Victor complained to them; he was trying to not cough, but failed as his left hand curled into a fist and covered his mouth as he coughed. It was becoming somewhat painful and difficult to breathe. “Alright, I need you to grab some clean clothes, and cover your mouth and nose”, Jessica told him; with all the noise on the other end of the phone, it was clear Victor was more than willing to comply with orders given. “I’m going to connect you to a medical worker, and he’ll tell you what to do next, okay?” “Okay”, Victor said, having listened to her orders; he did not feel as bad as he did previously, but now Jesus’ health was on his mind. The German shepherd could not protect himself as Victor could. “One moment please.” Jessica connected Victor to the medical worker, when the police chief called her. “I need you to be a unit dispatcher, and relay info between all us officers”, he said, his car’s engine heard faintly as he communicated via his cellphone. “But, why not someone else? I’m just the person who—” “Just do it!” the chief said sternly, and left to join his men; his call was now nothing more than the monotonous dial tone. Jessica was nervous. She had never done something this big before.  
It is 4:30 am on October 15, 2005 in the sleepy town of Texarkana, Arkansas. Peace engulfs the city and suburban scene as early morning continues on lazily; the dark sky is illuminated by the silvery-white moonlight. Inside a somewhat modern looking house for its time, its single occupant sleeps gently; the covers atop them slowly rise and drop with their peaceful breathing while they slumber. On the left hand side of the bed, looking directly at it from the front, a nightstand stands level with the mattress atop the box spring; a small window allows drapes to slowly wave as the air conditioning blows onto them. Some of the moonlight comes inside, but does not disturb the occupant; they simply have their back to the beauty of the early morning. On their nightstand, a small lamp is closest to the top left hand corner; the light fixture is simple in its appearance and build. It is merely the reinforced shaft, protecting vital electrical wires, the resting place for the bulb, and the shade atop it; the shade is a pyramid shape with an opening on its top large enough for the bulb to be replaced without hassle. Beside the black lamp, only an inch or two away, a ubiquitous black box alarm clock. It possesses the demonic red numerals as it shines in conjunction with the gentle moonlight; in front of it is the occupant’s cellphone. Although simple in its flat appearance, it is highly technological for the officer; it is the newest and latest Blackberry model. It remains silent, merely an inch or two away from the front of the alarm clock; its colour matches the alarm clock harmoniously.  
The occupant’s brand new upgraded cellular phone rings; the screen lights up as the singular, somewhat noisy ringtone sounds off. Their left hand fumbles about the nightstand; they hit the snooze button on the clock, which does not stop the noise, as the clock is not the source of the noisy ringtone. Finally, they take hold of the ringing cellphone and absentmindedly hits the “ANSWER” button on the Blackberry device with their left thumb; they bring it to their ear and mouth as they give a mostly groggy greeting to whomever has called them. They tell the caller if it is some cruel prank, they will regret it; their sleepy and barely thought out threat is responded to with a somewhat harsh diction from the caller on the other end of the line. Their partner in law enforcement and public protection has just informed them of an unknown, but bad accident about half a mile from where they live. He then informs them that they are needed to assist the rest of the squad that is out there and trying to figure out what exactly happened; they fumble a reply as their partner answers them sharply with a more problematic threat that lives may be in danger if they do not get their lazy self out of bed. His partner then gives them a small time limit to get out into the field and help investigate before hanging up and resuming his job; the occupant grumbles as they close their eyes and have the phone’s screen lit brightly. The call time flashes as the screen finally dims; they really do not want to leave their luxuriously comfortable bed. With a grumbling sigh, they reluctantly, and drowsily, sat up in bed.  
Their black hair was a literal mess as the occupant sat up in their bed; their right index finger and thumb had pulled on the chord to turn on the light to his small lamp on the nightstand. The light was not very bright at all, much to the occupant’s great, and certainly exhausted, relief. They sit up in their bed and yawn noisily; their back was supported by the two feather pillows that their head once rested upon. The pillows were remarkably large for their size; both alone were the size of their torso from their waist to their head. Both were very puffy and comfortable; they beckoned the occupant back to bed, very seductively, with their incredible comfort, heavenly soft plushness, and gentle, seducing scent of a peaceful slumber. They grumble as the Blackberry phone vibrated, its screen lighting up as they squint with mostly closed eyes to see what caused it to be so noisy; a text message from their partner reads, “Axle McFarland, get your lazy ass outta that bed before I kick your door in and pull you out.” Axle’s head falls back, landing delicately into the plushy pillows behind him as he groans; his partner was seriously intent on getting him out in the field right now, regardless of what time it was. Raising his head up again, he swings his legs over the right side of his bed, and slips his feet into his slippers and leaves his bed; he turns off the light on his lamp with a simple tug of the chord by his right index finger and thumb, a click shutting off the source of light. His feet drag in the dark room, illuminated by the moonlight, as he trudges sleepily towards his bathroom.  
Heading into his bathroom, he turns on the lights with an upward flick of the light switch, courtesy of his right index finger and thumb, and quickly shuts his eyes as the light blinds him momentarily; it surely was bright as he squints, covering his mostly shut eyes with his left forearm. Begrudgingly, as his eyes adjust to the light, Axle shuffles towards a bathroom sink; on the faucet’s right side, a toothbrush holder holding a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He takes hold of his tooth brush with his right hand as his left grasps the tube of toothpaste; his left squeezes some toothpaste onto it as he brushes his teeth. Once he finishes, he spits out the cleaning agent and rinses his mouth; with partially wet hands, he fiddles and then combs his hair. He leaves his bathroom shortly after, turning off the light and turning on the light in his bedroom; again, he closes his eyes and covers them with his left forearm. He walks over to his closet, not far from his bed and opens the door; he reaches his hands inside and pulls out the standard issue patrol officer’s uniform and puts it on. It was freshly pressed only hours earlier when there was actual daylight. Once he has buttoned up the shirt, tucked it into the pants, zipped up the zipper on the pants and put on a belt, he sits on the bottom left corner of his bed while he puts on his nice new black polished shoes; he props the calf of one leg atop the other’s knee as he ties the knot with the shoelaces. This is all pretty routine to him, seeing as how he did it every day; once finished, he stands up and leaves his room. He turns off the light with a simple downward flick of the light switch, courtesy of his left index finger and thumb, and traverses through his dark house; his standard issue police equipment, on the beltline of the nice black uniform pants, jingles quietly as he walks along.  
Waltzing into his kitchen, he turns on the light, only to squint partially; he has become used to the blinding sight somewhat. Approaching his best friend, he fiddles with the coffeemaker in order to make himself a nice pot of fresh, black, caffeine enriched coffee. Once it is finished, he fetches a thermal covered mug for him to contain it. He pours the remarkable hot, black caffeinated beverage inside; steam is seen as it gently rises off the liquid and then dissipates into the early morning atmosphere in the quiet household. Once at a suitable level away from the brim of the cup, Axle pours a little sugar, followed by French vanilla creamer, mixes it up with a wooden stirring stick, thrown into the garbage can shortly after its use, and puts on the cover of thermal covered mug to preserve the freshness of the delicious beverage. He then takes hold of the cup with his left hand; he makes sure it is a secure grip, so he does not lose the delicacy he has just brewed for himself. He walks towards a wall with a little hanging set of keys on it; there is only one pair, the keychain filled with numerous items, including two different keys. He pauses to observe a picture hanging above the storage unit; he is present with two other young men. All are dressed in police uniforms; he is in the middle of the other two men. The tallest, and most muscular, is on the photograph’s left; the shortest is on the right. He cracks a smirk before yawning again; it is too early for him to be awake for investigating an accident.  
Then, after looking at the picture above this little storage device, he collects his police car’s keys with his right hand; he drops them into his right pants’ pocket as he walks to the front door. He stops at a door before it a few fathoms away in the hall; he opens it with his right hand and finds a security keypad. He opens the small door with his right index finger and thumb as his right index finger inputs a code; the device beeps in recognition and begins to do a simple little countdown. It is informing him that he has set the alarm to protect his belongings; he shuts the door with his right index finger and thumb before closing the door and exiting his house through the front door. Once the front door is shut, he digs out his keys and inserts one of the only two inside both key holes on the front door; he locks it and he turns around to exit the small overhang before his front door. He heads out towards the black and white police car parked in his driveway; it is a 2005 Capitol Motors Colossus highway patrol car. With a black front, white midsection where the four doors are located, and a matching black back, it is the ultimate speed machine for a pursuit; at least in Axle’s eyes, Unit 209 is pristine and better in almost every single way to the other vehicles in the Texarkana Police Department’s fleet. Since it is aerodynamic, the only noticeable changes to the vehicle itself are the red and blue lights atop the car roof, and the two silvery-chrome spotlights on the side view mirrors; Axle yawns noisily into the early morning, receiving only a few silent hoots from an owl or chirps from the crickets as a greeting.  
His right hand delves into his right pants’ pocket again as he fumbles it about for his keys; he pulls them out and finds the one he needs to get into his car. Unlocking it, he opens the door with his right hand and climbs inside; the coffee mug rests in the cup holder as he closes the door, and puts the keys in the ignition, turning them clockwise to start the car. The engine purrs as the car idles; he has to buckle up so he will not be a bad example of a police officer. As the buckle clicks noisily, signaling, he is safely seated, he removes the parking brake and slowly reverses out of his driveway and leaves his house, driving out of his neighbourhood; he takes a quick sip of his coffee before returning his right hand to the steering wheel. As he drives on, he turns on the police radio with his right index finger and thumb; it crackles while officers speak about the unknown accident.  
He does not seem to really mind what the conversations are about; he knows he will be briefed about the entire incident soon enough. He drives at a somewhat slow pace; his right hand tilts the thermal covered mug as he sips his hot, caffeine enriched beverage in hopes of waking up. He returns it to the cup holder as he quietly burps; his right hand covers his mouth, curled into a fist before returning to the steering wheel. He listens to reports of where the incident was said to have occurred; somewhere in Hobo Jungle. Axle yawns again as his car moves back and forth subtly; he halts at an all-way stop sign four-way intersection. Knowing his dashboard camera is on and rolling, he obeys the law; the car pulls back a bit as he gently accelerates the vehicle onwards towards the area of the reported incident. Driving on toward the scene of the disaster, he soon wonders if he should regret having this job.  
“10-4.” The car radio noisily crackles as an emergency dispatcher responds to another police officer. “Central, they’re obviously pretty close to the railyard”, his partner radioes in. “Could you cop— Could you call them back, and see if they can ascertain, exactly, which car is overturned and maybe what the contents of the car was?” his masculine and stern voice says, stuttering slightly, signaling his mind was elsewhere when he began speaking. “The caller we got, was not a whole lotta help”, Jessica replied after a moment, tackling so many parts of her job at once. “She just said something really bad had happened at Hobo Jungle. We couldn’t really get a whole lot out of her.” “10-4. Have y’all attempted to contact the train yard?” his partner replies somewhat authoritatively, as though something is on his mind. Axle sips his delicious coffee out of his favourite thermal mug whilst listening to the radio chatter. It is white, with a box of randomly selected donuts on it. He looks forward to some sweet, sugary donuts after this little “investigation” “Not yet; all units are out. Be advised: the current winds are calm, variable.” “11 - 32. Show me enroute to the area of the train yard”, another unit radios out, its reply from the other unit being a, “No”, as though misunderstanding the message sent. He put the mug back in its cup holder, which the mug proudly towers over. A few seconds later, the young officer became restless, and wants to get this problem over with, so he drives forward, to see if he can figure anything out before the breakfast hour hits his favourite restaurant. As he moves along slowly, he shines his spotlight out into the darkness of a maze of roads in a residential area, a single light pole with its bulb lit as he moves on. Shining the light in front of him, Axle spots an eerie fog hugging the ground happily. Driving the entire unit into the fog, Axle stops the car abruptly, using his right hand to change the gear from “DRIVE” to “REVERSE” as he backs out of the fog. Getting several yards away, he thinks to himself, very sarcastically, in his head, “A realistic train derailment training regiment…. Thanks, Richard.” He then thinks about the fog. It was unusual; this fog had a chemical scent to it, and stung his eyes and throat. Normal fog would not do anything like that; just blind and disorient people from their usual surroundings.  
His computer does its ubiquitous beeping noise once again as he slows the unit to a halt. Once more, after hitting a few keys, the ding is heard from the computer once and then again as he takes hold of his unit radio with his right hand, calling into the Texarkana dispatcher. “209”, he says, awaiting a response almost immediately. “209”, Jessica replies, struggling to maintain as much communication between officers as possible. As he radios, he remembers the stinging scent of the fog. “Unusual for normal fog to have any kind of scent”, he thinks to himself before answering the dispatcher. “I’ve got some kind of chemical smell; I’m backing up. It’s slowly drifting, further south”, he informs her, knowing his sense of direction about the enigmatic maze of roads and intersections in the residential neighbourhood, which slept peacefully on, unaware of any real danger. “10-4”, Jessica replies, leaving Axle to manage on his own again. Only moments later, the muscles in his right arm tense up heavily as the young officer reaches for the small, black police unit’s radio; he has spotted what seems to be very unusual, and somewhat life-threatening if his suspicion is proven true. “The person who called it in, are they in a vehicle, out there by it? I can see a vehicle over there”, Axle says, using his car’s silver and chrome spotlight; he aimed it aimlessly in the dark and in the distance, near a set of railroad tracks, where a vehicle sat, stress-free and sleepily. A heavy, white fog, having conquered the grounds around the derailment and surrounding lands, dangerously drifted in Axle’s direction, hugging the ground lovingly, its direction southbound. “I’m not sure”, the dispatcher’s voice radioes back. Axle nervously put the radio back in its holster. He types on the computer’s keyboard, receiving the ubiquitous ding as he does, and then again as he finishes, having it follow off only a moment later. The ding is heard again as he moves the spotlight about the unit, trying to pinpoint the source of the fog.  
“204, 209, go to mobile,” his partner radios, telling Axle to use his personal radio. “I’m on mobile,” Axle replies, on his personnel equipped radio; it is clipped to his person, and his right thumb pushes the trigger to establish communications with the officer in Unit 209. “I’m gonna see if I can’t shine my spotlight out there, find out what’s going on,” the officer says. “10-4. Can’t get close enough to see what’s going on. I can see one car parked out there, close to the, uhhm, derai, where the sound came from, but, I’m not going into the fog to make contact.” “What’s your location that you were at? I’ll engage it”, another dispatched officer radios Axle, who responds a moment later as he determines his surroundings. “I’m about, the middle of, on the backside of Hobo Jungle, on the… Halfway through it, and it don’t look too good”, Axle replies, feeling rather uneasy on his judgment of the rather unexpected morning call for a training regiment.  
“The fire department is staging right now at East and Legion. . . Umm. . . I’m gonna talk to the fire department, I’m working over towards Hobo Jungle, I, I don’t, I don’t see anything outta the ordinary,” the officer in unit 204 says; he stutters somewhat as he speaks. Most likely, it is out of an uneasiness of what is really going on. “10-4. I’m going to loop around and come out on the…” The rest of what Axle says is lost to the faint sound of a siren heard on the radio. “204”, Jessica radios, hoping to catch Richard. “You might wanna start, cordoning off the area. Uhh, might wanna put somebody at East, East and Dudley, and try to keep traffic out of the area. That’s the location of the chemical smell”, he informs Jessica; he is showing that he is very nervous with what is going on so early in the morning. Axle reverses himself away from the slowly moving fog. It gently, but extremely subtly shuffles along the ground, conquering millimeter after millimeter mercilessly.  
All the officers and firefighters are more concerned than ever. A bead of sweat dots each man and woman’s forehead. Fire chief Red, visiting Texarkana, Arkansas from Texas and volunteering upon hearing the problem, has the larger, more equipped fire engines pull back a decent three miles until he knows what the fire department is up against. Until then, smaller units, such as off-roaders and pick-ups, drive in slowly, to investigate. Firefighters radio in valuable information. Dispatchers are holding and answering many telephone calls. They cannot spare any more officers. The entire fire department is out, and so are the paramedics. Every emergency service is severely taxed. Local neighbourhoods’ residents flood the dispatchers with calls. The chemical fog covers more and more ground. Officers, firefighters, and paramedics can do nothing but watch as it conquers the land mercilessly. As it does, whatever land it has not reached yet is only more of a dead end to the highly and extremely enigmatic puzzle, the center being where the derailment has occurred, and must be examined. Trees from the ground conquered by this troublesome fog look eerie at night, and far more nerving when a spotlight from a police car shines on it. Homes trapped in it are silent, solitary, as though one move could spell its untimely and unwanted demise. Every responding officer, firefighter, and paramedic is nervous. Axle continues to wish he was in his soft, luxurious bed. With its soft, fluffy surface, and its relaxing, comfortingly puffy pillows, warm, cotton blankets, its most lovable and necessary, according to Axle, massaging machine, to ease its owner to a peaceful night’s slumber, the young officer would not have to even worry about the training regiment he believed to have been volunteered into.  
“32?” The radio crackles as Axle quickly reverses himself away from the fog again, trying to get to the rail yard situated only a few yards from Hobo Jungle; the radio and chemical fog has brought him back to reality. His car engine whines as he reverses; it is as though the unit would rather drive going forwards, not the opposite direction. “31, 32”, a female officer replies, receiving more communications as Axle continues to reverse cautiously, but still at a fairly fast speed, around a right turn. “I’m going to be enroute to the rail yard as well”, the masculine voice tells the female officers. A little while later, Axle’s unit is at rest, and he is waiting for more information on what is happening. “11-32.” Axle waits quietly, his heart beginning to increase its pace as he listens to the message. The computer in his unit dings again, just as the female officer answers. “Go ahead”, the female officer answers. “The cloud seems to be driftin’ towards the … Could you notify them, and their guards, let them know what’s going on?” Axle, out of his own uncertainty, did not hear the place that this chemical fog was heading towards. All he knew is that it conquered land without mercy, and stung the eyes and throats of those who dared to oppose it. “10-4. Any units on, staying out there?” the female officer asks. “209”, Axle says, his tone one of slight apprehension. “What’s the closest, location, with that agency one on the phone, and also, can you see any numbers on the cars or anything?” “I’m at Roberts and Division. Uhh, I couldn’t get close enough to the rail yard without touch, going into the toxic chemical cloud”, Axle tells the officer, who listens intently in her vehicle. “10-4. I was advised by the yardmaster that the last two cars should be the ones that are turned over. They’re, assuming to be empty; last thing that they were told that was in’em was vinyl acetate, that it was stable. Car 19 is the closest thing to the end; it’s got, flammable gas, but, unsure if it’s been, knocked over or not.”  
“204.” Richard cuts in almost immediately after the information on the derailment had been given. Axle listens worriedly; the rumble of strong, mighty diesel engines used in fire trucks and ambulances is heard in the background. “204”, Jessica responds to Richard again. A loud rumbling is heard in the background as Richard talks. “I’m with the fire department.” Rumbling cuts out a sentence, but the rest of his message is heard clearly. “Could you have the, uhh… The information operator contact them and advise them the same thing you just told us?” “10-4”, Jessica tells Richard. Unknown to the security officer, the request is not fulfilled due to the unpreparedness of the emergency services.  
It is now 4:35 am, seconds from disaster, and the situation has worsened. Dispatchers and officers of the law have not figured out what is going on. Axle’s polished black uniform shoe on his right foot gently teeters a black gas pedal. The black and white police car, highway patrol unit 209, slowly inches forward. Axle coughs harshly as he stops his car abruptly. The unit bounces slightly as the officer finds the odor has a chemical scent, burning and stinging his eyes and his throat; his pathway to the heart of the problem is blocked. Axle immediately reverses out of the fog once again. He cannot get to the rail yard, the heart of the dangerous, and potentially deadly, mystery accident; the fog hatefully prevents anyone from doing so, as though holding everything in its grasp hostage. “205, 203.” Another unit makes communications with the one it radios for. For a moment, a faint siren is heard before another masculine voice says, “Go ahead.” The message is unheard as Axle sips his coffee again, trying to calm himself down from his own fear; he has started to sweat out of the uncertainty of what may happen next. “Just Station A for the time bein’. 203 to the units that responded to the, uhh, derailment, go to mobile please”, the officer in unit 203 asks. It takes Axle a moment to actually respond to the request. Slowly, his right hand reaches for and grasps the unit’s radio from its holster very shakily. Bringing it to a decent distance from his mouth, struggling to keep it steady, Axle answers the officer’s request and, as an unusual, and horrifyingly ominous, noise interrupts him, and a car door slams shut before he answers. “I’m on—”  
KA-FWOOOOM!!  
The police car shakes violently as the explosion subsides. “Just had a large explosion, Hobo Jungle’s completely engulfed in flames. 209, you all right?” Richard radioes to any officer or dispatcher listening, the end part of his message to Axle. Fumbling nervously for his unit’s radio with his right hand, Axle finally takes a violently shaky grip of it with his hand, pushing the side to allow communications between him and everyone else in the emergency business. “10-4”, Axle replies nervously, and rather quickly. He can feel his adrenaline gushing uncontrollably into his body as he looks around nervously with shrunken pupils. He waits uneasily in a silent unit as his radio is quieted by the explosion, then barely heard as he listens for any sort of voice at all. To his right, a light, colourful as a morning sunrise, begins to dawn very subtly. Horror, dread, and terror well up inside him, dangerously combining amongst themselves, causing his heart rate to increase and his pupils to shrink slightly. “204. Central, we just had a huge explosion. Uhh, we’ve got a massive fire out here, uhh, on Dudley, err, the yard,” Richard stutters, trying to get control of himself before he reacts in fear. Axle’s eyes shrink slightly, more than what they already were. “All kinds of stuff on fire.” Fear now begins to take over him as he backs his unit out of the middle of a four-way intersection, stopping near a stop sign as he sees a flash of a bright mixture of blue and white light to his right. No noise is heard from it as it dies down. “10-4”, the dispatcher responds momentarily after Axle’s unit stops its movement from a swift reversal. He swallows nervously. Another one of the flashes is seen, almost in front of him as a large, looming yellow-orange sun-like brightness is seen to his right. “Just lost power down here on the hill,” Richard tells the police dispatcher. He becomes more and more uncertain by the minute. Sweat now begins to dot his forehead, and slip down the sides of his face as the sun-like light on his right grows brighter and brighter. It now begins to engulf the entire area around him. His heart’s pace increases as his shoulders move up and down slightly faster and faster. “10-4”, the dispatcher replies shortly afterwards. Axle becomes more and more horrified. What was going on down at the railyard?  
Out of natural fear and reaction to the growing light, Axle reverses his car away from it as he gets the radio message, “209, you might wanna back your unit up”, Richard advised, trying to keep a calm tone in his voice. Without a moment to spare, Axle put his unit into reverse, as the gas pedal hit the car floor with a muffled thud. As the black rubber tires squealed to gain traction on the grey, dull cement, they left their impression on the lifeless concrete roadway. “Come on. Come on. Come on. COME ON. COME ON. COME ON. COME ON!!!!” Axle tells the unit in his head, struggling as his left hand held the steering wheel while he shifted gears with his right hand, causing it to falter and bounce periodically as he continues to back it up in reverse, away from the looming danger in front of him. While the engine roared noisily as the car accelerated, almost in slow motion, with a dull explosion heard, a bright red, orange, and yellow flames leaped into the air, attacking the peaceful dark purple and black night sky. Following the mixture of colours, a thick, blinding black cloud lovingly hugged the ever-growing fireball. No matter what he did, Axle was unable to remove his gaze from the monstrous fireball. Its destructively voracious appetite ate the chemical fog hungrily, and devoured anything in its path. Cars, small metal things, entire trees— gone in a flaming, burning blink of an eye. The fireball seemed to reach its arms out, devouring everything it took hold of. Its white fog that helped to make it was soon disappearing as the monstrosity devoured it hungrily. It rose into the air triumphantly, as though declaring war on everything that opposed it and easily clearing out any resistance. The patriotic lights on the unit’s cab were on, flashing and flickering as Axle continued to reverse away as quickly as possible. “Get your ass outta my way! Let’s get the hell up outta here!” Axle hollered into his mobile radio; driving with no regard to anyone’s safety or to Arkansas Police Department driving protocol. He wanted to get away before the monstrously hungry fireball roasted him alive. The monster ate everything in its path, from various automobiles, to entire houses, its hunger seemingly never to be satisfied. Axle desperately continued driving to outwit his hopefully avoidable fate. The fireball reached further, and further, as though it wanted to claim the young officer as a part of its delicious meal. Axle could not remove his eyes from the terrifying sight as he continued to back away.  
“32.” He hears an officer’s voice and a small, muffled explosion as he continues to back up, his heart pounding radically in his chest. “Go ahead”, Jessica responds back shortly after him. His fear of dying drove him to continue going backwards. The bright cocktail of colours shimmered and shone in the early Texarkana morning, their friend hugging them as they, too, billowed into the night sky, illuminated by flames. “A pursuing, we can see, guh!” A loud, shrill noise is heard as the explosion and its monstrous fireball interrupt communications momentarily, getting all emergency personnel to wince. The message is garbled, until, “We can see smoke all the way down here.” “10-4.” Jessica knows disaster has struck, but is forced to maintain her calm attitude. Axle continues to reverse, keeping his distance as the night sky darkens again, the monstrously devastating fireball having had its voracious appetite filled. It died down in the direction it started, but the smoke continued to billow gently into the very early morning hours. “11 – 32. I’m on the viaduct. There’s still, secondary explosions goin’ off”, another officer radios dispatchers. “10-4.” “If y’all following that vapour trail, y’all better get out of the cloud.” Axle knew it was more than wise to warn his friends in the dangerous occupation; certainly, this train accident was far worse than what any of the emergency personnel had thought. Bright flashes of a mixture of purple and neon blue light up the right side of Axle’s cruiser in the distance, and then again on the left. “209, where you at?!”  
Richard shot his question off faster than he would a handgun. His tone showed, if not already conveying, the concern he had for patrol officer Axle. Young Axle fumbles his right hand for the unit’s radio. Upon grasping it, he answers his worried friend. “I’m, I’m back out of the way. I just, uhh”, he replies, no-one hearing the sigh of relief from Richard. “23, 31: 257”, another unit radios a warning out. Axle stops his unit, sounding the siren loudly to wake up and warn residents to evacuate; several people had awoken from the explosion alone. “23, 31: 2-5-7”, the officer says again as Axle prepares to get out of his care and warn residents. “Go ‘head”, another officer replies. “205, burglary in progress: 1309, East 24th”, Jessica radios. “I’d go for that instead of THIS”, Axle thinks to himself as he exits his car. “Possible other vehicle.” “Screw it”, Axle thinks to himself. One car pursuits were more fun than going after two by yourself with another unit for help. “32.” “Alright, do right, 209, I’ll be enroute soon”, another female officer radios in reply. “No”, Jessica says, already having sent three units away from the derailment to answer the call; Axle is out of his car and telling curious, and obviously worried, locals to evacuate.  
“I’d start, getting my stuff, getting ready to get outta here. There’s a derailment, somethin’ blew up down there, and we’re trying to figure out what all’s goin’ on but the whole rail yard blew up”, Axle says, staying on the left hand side of the hood to his unit, explaining what has just happened to a female resident in the nearby house he stopped in front of. “Oh my gosh”, she replies, in complete disbelief as she and Axle look at the bright light signaling a fire and disaster that has occurred. “Uhh, I just had to back up outta there.” “10-4. All the officers that responded to this need to, need to, back up outta the way; the fire department’s even backing up now…. They’re not going close right now.” Another male officer radios out a definitive warning to save lives of other officers, stammering as he tries to comprehend what had just occurred in front of his, and many others’s, very eyes. “Y’all get, what people you can out of any homes, and get outta the area.” “Call everybody you know! Start wakin’em up; get’em outta here”, Axle orders the locals who, more than reasonably, do so without question and hesitation. Getting back into his patrol unit, Axle blasts the siren once again to wake up more residents.  
Victor heard a siren, and he jumped out of his bed; he had retreated there from the explosion, as had Jesus. He ran down the flight of stairs in his house, and opened the front door as he saw flashing lights accompany the siren. The alarm went off, and he ran into his laundry room to disarm it; he heard Jesus’ faint barking as the German shepherd had taken guard immediately at the newcomer. The instant he disarmed it, he heard a siren again. “Oh, no”, Victor said with a horrid realization overcoming him at once; the garage he had built and ran in his father’s honour was probably what had caused the explosion. He ran outside, and he found Richard’s SUV standing in the middle of the road; its lights were flashing and swirling, and other local residents came outside to see what was the matter. “Victor!” he called running toward him with a hastened jog. “Get everyone you know up and outta here!” he said sternly; sweat was slowly sliding down Richard’s face as he knew he would probably worry his friend. Victor could not even say anything, as Richard interrupted him saying, “I got more people to wake up, and get outta here. Don’t worry about me; just help us out, okay?” With that said, Richard ran back to his SUV, and sped off down the road after quickly hopping inside and sounding the siren while driving off. Victor ran into his house, and picked up the phone; his left index finger punched a number onto the dial pad as Jesus stood at attention at Victor’s feet. “Listen, get out of your house!” Victor yelled into his phone, warning those he knew to get out of the danger zones.  
Big Mac and Warrior ran outside of their home to discover a light was dying down in the direction to the Texarkana railyard. Marion Capone sped up in his Capitol Motors Colossus. He jumped out, and ran to the two men. The two had differing facial expressions; one was very stern, as he had to be, while the other was worried. “Get out of here!” the Caucasian man barked, pointing at both of them with his right index finger; he was being serious, and both mechanics knew it without hesitation that he was not just being rude. He was trying to get his friends to safety while doing his job. “Just call everyone you know, give them a ride out of here!” “Yessir! Right away sir!” Warrior yelled, as though he were now suddenly a volunteer firefighter. Warrior, without Big Mac, charged down the block, banging on doors, and urging people to get out; the Scotsman turned his head to follow Warrior as Marion climbed into his car and sped away. Watching the unit race off into the somewhat lit early morning, Big Mac conceded and followed suit to his friend, slamming either of his hands, curled into fists, on doors and urging people to safety.  
Just like Richard and Marion, Axle had jumped out of his car, and started ordering evacuations. A couple walked out and Axle walked towards them. “Get everyone around here you know, wake them up, and get them out of here!” Axle yelled, pointing at them with his right index finger; they retreated and followed his orders without fail. He got back into his car, and sped off to the next neighbourhood with the car’s lights and sirens wailing. Every single officer was in the process of doing this. The fire department’s dispatcher had been informed that the fire department had established a new temporary command site at 5:15 AM, and a one mile radius evacuation was in full effect. Jessica looked at the clock in her office. She just found out that a new command post had been established at the edge of the one mile evacuation radius. It read 5:30 AM.  
At 7:15 AM, 3,000 residents had been evacuated, and news channels were breaking the news to all of Texarkana. The fire chief, the Texarkana emergency operations center coordinator, and the incident commander had finally received a consist of both trains. Hercules ran up, upon hearing the news of a fire, and showed his retired firefighting badge. He made a request to the fire chief, asking to go along. The fire chief reluctantly agreed; he would not deny the former firefighter one volunteer job as search and rescue, if anyone was still alive from the blast. Hercules, the fire chief, and a fire captain had suited up, and went in.  
What awaited the three men inside the danger zone was grey-black smoke, flames burning things to no end, and neighbourhoods turned into warzones. Flames crackled as they ate their newest meal, and many cars were now a singed light gray with no life at all; the metal wheel bearings had melted rubber smoldering on them. Two homes were seen as nothing more than foundations; the shockwave had destroyed them, cleaning the foundations, and the ensuing fireball had consumed the debris. Trees were a scorched black, with no leaves on any of their branches; those fortunate ones that did found the leaves being burnt to a crisp by flames. The three men’s boots crunched noisily as they tread the now deadly disaster area; a thick, somewhat light gray pasty fog hung up below their torsos. All three looked about; two were somewhat horrified and trying to keep themselves focused on the task at hand while another forced back memories as he kept the other two men company to the heart of the accident.  
Upon arriving at the rail yard, the fire chief had been able to identify the rolling stock, railed and derailed, courtesy of a clipboard and the consists of both trains. He also assessed the damage with Hercules’ help. “Looks bad”, the captain said, looking about himself as the trio walked into the neighbourhood that now had the appearance of a war zone. Car shells were smoldering, what remained of houses did much the same; the three men had the worst feelings in their stomachs, but Hercules knew he had to be stronger than the two for moral support. As they walked on, the fire chief thought he spotted something. Through the flames, and their smoke, he was able to fixate something burning. “Over there!” the fire chief called, pointing to the burning Union Pacific railroad wooden trestle bridge; next to it, a natural gas pipeline. “We’ve got to cool it, or it’ll blow!” The men left, once more braving the dangerous and deadly puzzle and, upon returning to safety, informed the emergency operator coordinator, and the incident commander of their finds; Hercules explained everything that he had seen and was able to point it out cleanly on a map of the area.  
The incident commander ordered a water monitor to cool the six inch pipeline near the burning trestle; it would save from another disaster occurring. With one on their hands, no-one wanted another to occur. The fire chief had also notified the coordinator and the commander of two burning homes, the burning trestle, and a burning shed. It was obvious that many vehicles had burned out during the evacuations. Two trucks went to the burning homes, a pumper and a ladder truck. Firefighters went into the homes to search for possible victims. When Hercules returned from accompanying firefighters to carry out search and rescue operations, it was one-thirty in the afternoon. The incident commander chose to let the propylene burn in the tanker car, and all third parties agreed it was the best thing to do. Hercules was thanked for his service, and he was taken to the nearest hotel by the battalion chief on duty for the disaster.  
As Hercules entered the hotel, Victor, Big Mac, and Warrior ran to him and embraced him; all were so very scared and relieved at the same time. “We thought the fire got you!” Warrior said, worry and concern prominent in his voice; Big Mac tried to be strong as he could see Warrior’s facial expression was one of great sadness. “Don’t worry ma’dears”, Hercules said, loving reassurance in his voice as he consoled his friend; he gently embraced Warrior once more, then the other two men. “I’m all right sweethearts.”  
Loud and undecipherable shouting had the four men turn around to see Gil arguing with a policeman; the trucker was obviously keeping his temper in check as he kept his hands open and not curled into fists. “You gotta wait here like everyone else pal!” the officer said angrily, indicating the trucker with his right index finger and then having the palm of his right hand up as he showed the other evacuees in the hotel lobby. “Oh no I won’t!” Gil retorted, his anger boiling up dangerously; he was literally shaking from rage. “If my truck burns to a crisp, I’ll sue your ass!” “Calm down, Gil, old boy”, Hercules said in his cool and suave way; his left hand gently moved downwards, somehow calming the irate trucker somewhat, as though by magic. He soon explained everything to the officer about the truck driver and beloved vehicle. “Sorry, Hercules”, the officer said, wishing he would have not made such a negative impression on the gentleman. “Orders are orders. Command says no-one goes in until the entire fire’s out.” “Very well, old chap. Only doing your job”, Hercules winked with his right eye, tilting his head to the right at the officer. The two men turned around, and rejoined Victor and the others.  
Suddenly, a beige skin tone man with a black fedora with a single white stripe on it ran in; a light grey trench coat flapped noisily as he came to a sudden halt. He stood next to the police officer, catching his breath; all eyes were on him as the officer hunched over somewhat, asking if the newcomer needed anything to help him out. His rich wine red vest covered his black dress shirt; his black dress pants matched his jet black shoes. The officer’s left hand was on the newcomer’s back as he once more offered to get him something to help him breath; he was gently shrugged off with a subtle left to right waving motion of the newcomer’s right hand. His left hand remained on his left kneecap; his shoulders slowly rose up and down as he gasped for air to breath.  
“Zebedee?” Victor said puzzled; from the tone of the Cuban man’s voice, everyone was able to tell that he was simply guessing at the man’s identity. Zebedee caught his breath, and walked over to the group of men; the officer went to tend to other locals in the lobby. “Well, hello Zebedee old boy”, Hercules said with a smile upon his face; his right hand came out of his pants’ pocket while his left remained inside its corresponding pants’ pocket. “Hercules. Victor”, Zebedee said, gently nodding his head down and then up very subtly once. “Hi Zebedee!” Big Mac smiled gaily; the Scotsman walked over to him and slapped his right hand onto the man’s back as he chortled happily. Zebedee cried out once as the slap was loud enough to have Victor wince slightly. “Big Mac. Warrior”, Zebedee said, doing the exact same thing as what he did for Hercules and Victor. “What brings you here old darling, hmm?” Hercules asked as he removed his white and baby blue hat, gently dusting it off. “I heard about the explosion. Came to see if anyone was hurt”, he shrugged sheepishly, his facial expression one of shame and defeat. His cheeks were flushed somewhat red; it helped to make his pencil moustache stand out; it overran the corners of his mouth a small bit.  
“Well, thanks”, Big Mac said, a kind friendly smile on his face. “Yeah, thanks”, Warrior chimed in, a pudgy, gracious smile on his face. “That’s very kind of you, ma’dear”, Hercules said as he put his hat back on. Zebedee shrugged sheepishly; he did not know what else to do. “Well”, Hercules sighed, looking about himself. “Best be going.” “Where you going?” Warrior asked, a questioning expression on his face. “Back to Fort Worth old chap. I have a few small businesses I own that I feel I need to frequent”, Hercules smiled, winking his right eye at the man with a subtle tilt of his head. “Oh, and Warrior? Look after Big Mac for me, won’t you?” Hercules said as he used his right index finger and thumb to hold Warrior’s chin while he walked off. “He does that”, Zebedee confided to him; he still possessed his uneasy and guilty expression on his face. They spoke for an hour, and decided to go and grab some lunch, since it had been more than sixteen hours since Big Mac, Victor, and Warrior had eaten.  
When the group returned back to the hotel, Victor looked at a clock. It read 7:30 P.M. “Goodness, sure is late”, he commented, surprised that a little bout on the nearby downtown portion of Texarkana had taken so long. “Victor”, Big Mac sighed, sounding like he did not want to speak of what was going to be said. “I need to talk to you.” “Of course. What’s up?” Victor said, turning to look at Big Mac. “Consider this my resignation from ‘AutoMen’.” “I’m not sure I understand”, Victor said, looking a bit puzzled. “I’m quitting, and going to work for Hercules in Fort Worth”, Big Mac said, his voice quivering somewhat. From the tone alone, both Victor and Warrior knew that the Scotsman did not want to leave, but knew he had to. Victor took it as something a little personal; it was visible in his eyes and facial expression as he retreated slightly. “Nothing personal, just didn’t expect living and working a half mile from a railyard that would bring this”, Big Mac said as he used his right arm and hand to point out a television screen with an aerial view of the Texarkana railyard spewing smoke and flames looking like lava.  
“It has been confirmed by local authorities that there is one death from this horrible horrible accident. We were just told that this person died in the explosion. We don’t have the name, but hopefully…” the voiceover of a news anchor said; it faded into the background as the three men began to talk again. “Count me out too, Gov’ner”, Warrior said, trying to be as gentle as he could to his friend; Victor now looked to Warrior, trying to hide his horror. “Not trying to be rude or nothin’.” It took Victor a moment to grasp it. “I didn’t agree to live a half mile to wake up and be evacuated because of a train derailing and exploding”, Big Mac said, his hands in his pants’ pockets. “Sorry, Gov’ner. I don’t want to die from not breathing or burning to a crisp”, Warrior sighed, looking very unhappy whilst addressing the same problem. “Very well”, Victor sighed unhappily. Deep down, he knew he had no way of convincing his friends to remain with him.  
“I can give you and your belongings a lift”, Gil shrugged, walking over unbeknownst to them all; he was very “convenient” in making his entrance to the two mechanics. “I thought they wouldn’t let you get your truck”, Big Mac said suspiciously; he squinted his eyes somewhat as he crossed his arms over his torso. “Grabbed her when they weren’t looking”, Gil sniggered, brushing off his polo’s left sleeve with his right hand. “Had to spend $800 dollars.” “What for?!” Warrior said, alarmed and certainly confused. “Fire burned the eight trailer wheels to a crisp”, Gil grumbled, more than clear that he was very angry. The police officer walked over; he and Gil had animosity searing dangerously between themselves from their previous encounter. “You can go home now”, he said, a smile on his face and a gentle tone in his voice as he addressed the other three men. The group looked at the television; it had prerecorded footage showing the devastation of the accident with a news banner declaring everything about it. Its clock read 12:15 AM. They had spent nearly five hours just talking before the officer came walking up to them. “The accident’s over. They’re letting people head home. Last of the danger’s over.” With that, the officer walked over to another group of citizens.  
“Alright then”, Big Mac said, breaking the ice of a rather painful outcome, and an uneasy atmosphere. “Gil, how soon can we leave?” “Whenever you like”, he grunted, scratching an itch that plagued the back of his head with his right hand. “Right. Well”, Big Mac said, trying to ease the tension of a horribly awkward atmosphere. “Been a pleasure working with you, Victor”, he sighed as he extended his right hand for Victor to shake. “It has been a pleasure working with the two of you as well", Victor said, not looking at either Big Mac or Warrior; his head hung low in shame and pain. Victor turned away, and walked out to the parking lot; Warrior and Big Mac’s hearts fell in sorrow. Gil placed his hand on Big Mac’s right shoulder, and said, “He’ll get over it in time.” With that being said, the three men left, and Zebedee followed. Out in the parking lot, Zebedee addressed the three of them; he stood near his motorcycle.  
“I’ll meet you at the Sonic restaurant on Highway 377”, he said, looking between the three. “Gil should know what I’m talking about.” “Sure do. See you there”, Gil said with a smile on his face. “You buying breakfast?” Gil added quickly with a smirk; his response was a slight scowl from Zebedee. “Don’t press as is Evans; not made of money.” He and Zebedee shook hands; both could not help smirk in response to the banter they had exchanged. Gil unlocked his truck, and he climbed into the driver’s side. Big Mac and Warrior climbed in the passenger side.  
Big Mac directed Gil to their house, and the three men spent the rest of the morning packing the truck’s trailer with the two men’s furniture and belongings; scarily enough, there was ample room for their vehicle to be loaded into the trailer with enough room for another vehicle. Big Mac and Warrior took turns sleeping and keeping Gil company as he made final preparations to the semi and its trailer. When 7:00 AM came around, Gil started up his semi, and started the trek to Fort Worth, but not at once; he stopped at Victor’s house. Gil got out, being as quiet as he could to not wake the two slumbering mechanics and dropped a package off on the front step near Victor’s front door. He clambered back into the cab, and drove off.  
In the morning, Victor woke to Jesus’ barking; it echoed loudly and somewhat faintly as the Cuban man groaned while waking up. Half-awake, he trudged himself out of his bed and to the source of the noise. Victor went to the laundry room, disarmed the alarm, and opened the front door. Jesus bolted out, and sniffed the package Gil had left. Three letters addressed to Victor were taped onto the package. He picked it up, and brought it into the house. Closing the door, Jesus whined as he saw Victor place the package onto the coffee table in the living room. Victor went into his kitchen, and made himself a cup of coffee. He soon returned to the living room with his coffee mug and the newspaper. Jesus growled, and took the paper from Victor’s hand. “Jesus! Give!” Victor ordered; he still had emotional pain from the resignation from his two best mechanics. Jesus whined, and indicated the letters on the package. Victor and Jesus had a tense stand off. “Fine”, Victor grumbled discontentedly; he had to concede to his German shepherd’s request. He sat down on the sofa, and placed his coffee mug on the table. He pulled off the three letters. Each was in different handwriting. Opening the first letter, it read: 

Dear Victor,  
Times have come and gone, and I would’ve hoped for a new job transfer and the time for me to tell you would’ve come easier then it being a life-risking accident. Hercules offered me a job as an ace mechanic at his new garage in Fort Worth. Increased pay, my own hours, and lots of other great things made the offer irresistible. We’ve been friends since you opened the garage in 1998. Seven years of great service to you and a wonderful community was a blast, but the train derailment and explosion helped me out in a bad way to make the choice. I didn’t accept the offer right away, since Hercules pitched it to me back in 2000. I told him to give me some time to make up my mind, and he told me to take all the time I need. I gave him my answer in the hotel lobby when you went to the bathroom. He said he was sorry that his friend would lose someone as great as me, but I don’t believe it. Anyway, this letter’s taken me about six hours to write, since I have to break it to you. I do have a Facebook, so find me and we can still be friends. The job in Fort Worth is just part-time until I get my footing in another city. I’ll still remember all the good times we had as friends, and I hope this doesn’t end our friendship. God bless you, and hope your business flourishes.  
Your close friend,  
Big Mac

Victor sniffed as he folded the letter back up, and placed it in its envelope; he made himself grow stern once more. He would not cry over their decision to leave and work with his college buddy; certainly Hercules would be able to give the two men more pay and better tools. He picked up the next one, trying to remain as hurt as he could; he had just lost two of his closest friends due to an unforeseen accident. It, like the other two, was addressed to him. He opened it. 

Dear Victor,  
It has always been a wonderful pleasure working with such a friendly and wonderful man such as yourself. In the year of 2000, Big Mac told me that Hercules had offered us both jobs in Fort Worth. It saddened me, as I loved going to work at AutoMen everyday. But when the train derailed and exploded, Big Mac had told me he had made up his mind, and I told him I did as well. When you were in the bathroom, we told Hercules we accepted, and he gave us a list of addresses in which houses were being sold. We chose one, and he bought it for us. I’m going to miss working with you and everyone who would come in. Please find me and Big Mac on Facebook, and add us as friends. I will miss you and Jesus so very much. Take care of yourselves.

Warm regards, Warrior.

 

Once more, Victor sniffled as he folded the letter and placed it in its envelope; he forced himself to toughen up again. He grabbed the last one and opened it. 

Dear Victor,  
Things have always been, difficult, whenever I came around the AutoMen garage. I always had a bad feeling about it being a half mile from a busy railroad yard. But last night’s accident has made me accept Manager’s job offer. I’ll still keep my regular job and truck. My pay increases, and he’s very patient to my “heroic” actions. I get my own hours, and he tells me business will be even better with me there. I’ll still be able to drop by for a visit every so often. Anyway, after Big Mac and Warrior broke the news to you, we left. Zebedee gave me this package with direct orders to drop it off before we left. I was suspicious, but I had trusted him. Anyway, he says for you to open it, and to enjoy what’s inside. Hope to see you soon.

Your favourite trucker,  
Gilliam Reginald Evans 

These letters were too much for Victor. Tearfully, he folded it up, and placed it in its envelope. He wiped his nose with a tissue, and picked up the package. It was addressed to him, but not from Big Mac, Warrior, or even Gil. He opened the package, and found an electronic photo holder, transitioning through photos taken of him and his friends. He found a maroon cap with wasp yellow and black hazard stripes on the bill that read “Victor’s Repairs”, and a letter. He opened it, expecting more heartache, but its contents rocked him to his core.

Dear Victor,  
Well old darling, I was going to break the news of the job offerings to you, but fate beat me to it. Asides from this, I have an offer for you. After the train derailed and exploded, Richard, Marion, and Axle were offered their same jobs by Iron Bert for the Rogue Military. They had spoken amongst each other about this accident, and were scared stiff. Iron Bert offered the men the jobs, and they took it. They are being relocated to Fort Worth, which is where my job offer will take you. My new garage, “Victor’s Repairs”, needs a manager who isn’t afraid to get dirty while brightening people’s days, and fixing their vehicles. I chose to ask you, not only because you are one of my closest friends, but because it was going to be a gift from your father. I wanted what he would have wanted. He wanted you to work with your love affair, and so do I. Therefore, I am offering you this job, with an increased pay, your own working hours, and multiple benefits. I hope to hear from you soon old darling.

Sincerely,  
Hercules  
P.S.  
Look after Jesus for me, won’t you?

Victor could not believe what he had just read. All of his close friends ended up getting jobs with two of the world’s most famous men, and he was being offered one! He called a moving company, and they arrived at once; even though a disaster had just happened, they were more than willing to get more business. He planned to demolish AutoMen, but his veteran mechanic would not have it; the man had known Victor’s father for years. Victor signed it to him for the price of $60,000 and his home to him for an additional $50,000; the business and some living would be closer to the new owner. Victor soon packed up, and left. When he arrived in Fort Worth, the moving company took him to his new home. It was located on a street addressed as “Rushmore Court”. When the convoy stopped, Big Mac, Warrior, Richard, Axle, and Marion were waiting; each man was all smiles as they saw the Cadillac Escalade follow a semi-tractor trailer into the cul-de-sac. The instant Victor opened his car door, Jesus jumped out and tackled Warrior, licking him with a passion, as though he hadn’t seen Warrior for years. Big Mac chuckled, and Richard joined him. Marion walked up as Gil dismounted from the truck cab. Axle walked up to Victor and shook his hand as he placed his left hand on Victor’s shoulder. Hercules soon walked up, and he shook Victor’s hand. The three turned around to see Gil and Marion taking Big Mac and Warrior’s belongings into their new home.  
Several years later, none of the friends can forget what happened that day in October. October 15th, 2005 always haunts them. The sound of a train horn always makes them feel uncomfortable, but they know if it happens, they will be nowhere close to the danger. With a Union Pacific line running parallel to Highway 377, only one freight train can go either north or south. Big Mac had always had a healthy respect for the steel beasts. People made fun of him for it, but soon learned why he had such a healthy respect. With the Texarkana train derailment and explosion, his respect grew even higher. Warrior soon picked up the healthy respect, as did Victor, Richard, Marion, and Axle. Hercules firefighting history was soon revealed in a book he published titled, “A Devastating End: The End of a Firefighter’s Career”.  
Hercules would end up revealing a lot more about himself during his friends living in Fort Worth; Bert would help out partially, but refuse to take credit for doing so to preserve his image. A lot of what Hercules would reveal would shock all his friends; some would be angered greatly by the hurt of his lack of trust he may have with them. Others would be emotional and try to be a closer and better friend to him. He even lost some of his claimed “to-be friends”, but, that’s another story.

 

— Manager


End file.
